


In Three Days: A Memoir by Castiel Shurley

by glassclosetcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Chuck is dad, Domestic Castiel, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Family Feels, Father Daughter Feels, First Meetings, Happy Ending, Humor, Idiots in Love, Inspired by a Movie, Jealous Dean, Light Angst, M/M, Memoirs, Mistakes, Misunderstandings, No Smut, POV Castiel, Passive Aggressive Eye-Rolling, Repression, Writer Castiel, dad!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassclosetcastiel/pseuds/glassclosetcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family and parenting advice writer Castiel Shurley is on the verge of syndication with his weekly column, <i>Fix My Family.</i> The problem? His husband is dead and he can barely handle their three daughters alone.</p><p>When the four take a trip to Castiel’s childhood home in Rhode Island to spend a long weekend with the entire Shurley family, Castiel meets an intriguing, incredible man who could change everything. But when Castiel finds out who Dean really is, the family drama just gets worse.</p><p>The only way to overcome will be for Castiel to own up to his mistakes and take his own advice- listen to his daughters- and admit that maybe it <i>is</i> possible to fall in love in just three days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally complete! I've spent a long time on this story and I have a ton of people to thank. BUT FIRST! WHILE I HAVE EVERYONE'S ATTENTION! This fic is written like a memoir. As such, it's in first-person. Even if you generally never read first-person POV, I'd love it if you'd just give it a chance. At least read a chapter or two and see if you like it. If it's not for you, I totally understand. I appreciate you giving it a go, though!
> 
> Secondly, this story is based on the movie _Dan in Real Life_ (you might be familiar with the episode from season two called "Chuck in Real Life"- the title was taken from the movie) which is a really wonderful film and you should watch it. After you read this story, of course. I tried to maintain the storyline while keeping the dialogue and situations authentic to Supernatural and its characters.
> 
> Okay, now that the official stuff is out of the way, I must proclaim my undying devotion to [Becca](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alternaurora/works), who has for the last year been my biggest supporter and #1 cheerleader. She not only reads and betas everything I write, she listens to my ideas and squees with me and badgers me when I need badgering and encourages me when I need encouragement. So thank you x 1,000,000, Becca. You're amazing. (PS- she's about to post the most amazing 150k+ fic ever, so stay tuned for that.)
> 
> Huge thanks to Museaway for loving the idea of this fic, for giving me amazing ideas, and for making my writing better. Thanks also to Tennyo, Elizabeth, and Izzy for beta-ing. (I must also thank Ash, who doesn't read first person, but who gave this story a chance anyway, my gish team, Team FreeWill, who told me all about alcohol (for which I have no frame of reference), and Dani, who gave me medical consults and nixed stuff that was totally unrealistic. Thanks guys!)
> 
> So that's it! I really hope you enjoy this story. Let me know what you think.

_A Note From the Author, Castiel Shurley:_

Life is hardly ever perfect, dear reader.

Life is messy, and difficult, and often leaves you wishing you could hit the reset button—start again fresh with your perspective intact. We can’t hit a magical reset button, though, and we can’t undo the things that have happened to us, or the things we’ve done to others. What we can do, however, is try our best to learn from the events of our past so that we can work toward creating a better future.

It took me a long time to realize that.

 

_Prologue_

 

I was 19 years old when I met the man who would become my husband. Daniel was intense and passionate, outgoing and strong and brave, and all of the things I knew I could never be. We were drawn to each other instantly. I fell hard and fast, and fortunately, he fell right along with me.

We moved in together and exchanged rings in a time before that kind of thing was widely accepted. Adopting in the late 90s was difficult for single fathers and downright impossible for gay couples. My brother’s wife agreed to be our surrogate. Daniel was the biological father. Our first daughter, Emma, was born in 1998. She had olive skin and light brown hair, just like her daddy. Looking at the two of them together, I wondered how I could ever possibly be happier.

We had two more babies, this time fathered by myself—Claire, two years later, and Lea, four years after that—and the happiness just intensified. Those two took after their biological mother, with blonde hair and stormy blue eyes that were thankfully just like mine. 

They were perfect. Our family was complete.

The cancer came out of nowhere, in 2012. Pancreatic cancer. The kind you can’t treat. They found it at Halloween. Daniel was gone by Christmas.

And just like that, life was... imperfect. I was alone for the first time in twenty years. Our family incomplete, the girls and I struggled to maintain a sense of normalcy. But things were just never the same.

Chapter One

_“Life is hardly ever perfect, dear reader. Don’t expect it to be so. At the end of the day, you can only do your best, and hope that it’s enough.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

The sound of my alarm blaring was a familiar nuisance. I shot an arm out and fished for my phone on the nightstand, stubbornly refusing to open my eyes. I silenced it with well-practiced fingers and tossed it down next to me on the bed. Ten minutes later when it sounded again, I threw the covers off in a huff and sat up in my queen-sized bed, empty but for the two pillows. I slept with both of them, these days.

Lea was already awake. I passed her empty bedroom on my way to the bathroom to freshen up for the day. The door was locked, and I could hear a hair dryer going. I suspected Claire.

I knocked. “Honey bee, twenty minutes,” I called over the electric hum. She didn’t respond.

“Morning,” I said to my eldest, Emma, as I passed her bedroom door. She was sitting with an open book in her lap, pausing her reading for a brief moment to smile up at me.

My eleven-year-old, Lea, was making sandwiches for everyone. “Hey, little bee,” I said, stooping down to kiss the top of her head. “Whatcha making?”

She rolled her eyes in an affectionate way. We played this game most every morning. “Peanut butter and honey sandwiches,” she said. I dreaded the day, surely only a few years from now, when she’d tack on a “ _Duh, dad_ ,” or an " _Obviously_ ," just like Claire would say. For now, though, she smiled and continued humming, and I sipped my coffee for a minute, content to just watch her work.

Claire ignored my half-hearted protests as she swooped in to grab a mug of coffee. She was wearing a tank top and the shortest pair of jean shorts I’d ever seen. The pockets were peeking out the bottoms. I stopped her as she reached for the pot.

“What exactly are you wearing?”

She rolled her eyes. She and Lea looked so much alike that it just reinforced my earlier fears. “They're called shorts, Dad,” she huffed, reaching around me to grab a mug out of the cabinet.

“Those are hardly shorts,” I said. “They’re barely denim underwear. Where on earth did you get those? There is no way those are in dress code."

Claire gave me a disgusted look and stormed from the kitchen. “Change into some actual pants, please!” I shouted after her. She nearly shoved Emma in her haste to leave the room.

“What’s up?” Emma asked. I just shook my head.

I helped Lea quarter the sandwiches while Emma picked a few ripe bananas from the bunch. I checked my watch and called out for Claire, knowing we’d be late again if she didn’t hurry. A minute later, she brushed past me out the door wearing a pair of too-tight, but blessedly long, skinny jeans.

“Happy?” Claire called over her shoulder. 

Emma gave me a look, but she and Lea grabbed their bags and headed for the door. I sighed and downed the rest of my coffee.

\--

Emma was sitting in the driver’s seat when I got to the car. “No,” I said, leaning into the window.

“Pleeease?” She drew the word out, steepling her hands as if in prayer.

“No, baby, I’m sorry,” I said. We’d had this discussion before. She was seventeen now, but she still didn’t have her license. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, you know that,” I said. “It’s—”

“—everyone else on the road you don’t trust,” Claire and Lea droned from the backseat. I sighed.

Emma unbuckled the seat belt and threw the door open, slamming it shut before I could get in.

The car ride was silent save for Lea’s humming in the front seat. At a red light, I turned a bit to watch her, happily kicking her feet, hugging her _Harry Potter_ backpack. 

In a year, Emma would be leaving to go off to college, and Lea would be starting her last year of middle school. I tried not to think about Claire starting her junior year of high school, having friends who could drive, going to proms and parties, making out with college-age boys and getting pregnant before she’d even hit eleventh grade.

Pushing away all thoughts of my rapidly maturing daughters, I zoned out to the tune of Lea's little tapping feet and the hiss of a whispered conversation between her sisters in the back seat.

\--

It took me ten minutes to wrangle all of the dirty laundry from the mess on Claire and Lea's bedroom floor. I shook my head when I found Claire's hastily-discarded, barely-there denim shorts. I wadded them up with the rest and tossed them into the family hamper, along with Emma’s and my clothes. 

I went about starting my daily ritual—beginning the first of three wash cycles before cleaning up the mess in the kitchen from Lea's sandwich-making this morning. I washed the dishes, drying them all by hand and setting them in their respective cabinets and drawers. Keeping the kitchen organized and clean, the way Daniel had always kept it, felt like a sort of connection to him. He’d always been the cook in our family, so the kitchen had been his domain. After he died, I found myself unable to touch things there—found that I could do little more than unwrap freezer packages and warm them in the microwave. After a time, the girls began helping me cook things, and most days they were responsible for making meals. I still insisted on making them personalized lunches, though. Just as Daniel had always done. 

After making myself a lunch of tuna on white bread, I finally sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. I had six questions to answer for the column—more than usual, because I wanted to get a whole week's worth done before the vacation we'd be taking this weekend. The Annual Shurley Labor Day Weekend Family Gathering started tomorrow. We'd be heading out to Rhode Island this afternoon. I added _make sure the girls are all packed_ to my mental checklist, and set to work.

_'Communication is key, dear reader,'_ I typed. A mother was having trouble getting through to her teenage son, who would apparently rather play video games all day than interact with the family. _'Open up a dialogue with your son. See what it is that he's missing. I think you'll find that his needs are the same as yours.'_

\--

Around 2:00, just as I was preparing to wrap up and get Lea from school, I got a call from an unknown number. "Mr. Shurley?" a woman asked.

"Speaking." I tucked the phone between my cheek and shoulder, closing down my laptop and reaching for the keys to the Station Wagon.

"Hi, Mr. Shurley. This is Tessa Mortdecai from _Home and Families_. How are you?"

I stilled, my hand hovering on the door handle. "I'm very well, Ms. Mortdecai, how can I help you?"

"Well, Mr. Shurley, my father and I are looking for a fresh monthly column for the magazine, and were looking at a few different candidates for syndication. Your _Fix My Family_ column was brought to our attention, and I've got to say, Mr. Shurley-"

"Castiel," I replied automatically. I winced, realizing I'd cut her off. She went with it, though, tone as smooth and friendly as before.

"Castiel, your column is so refreshing. So honest. So wholesome. It's exactly what we're looking for."

I could feel my heart thudding down to my toes. I cleared my throat, taking the second or two to even my breath. "That's- that's wonderful, Ms. Mortdecai, that's just. That's wonderful."

"Please, call me Tessa," she said. I stifled a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a nervous scoff.

"We'd love to meet with you in person," she said, and then lower, conspiratorially, "To tell you the truth, you're my clear favorite. But my father wants to meet you and your family, get a sense of your dynamic, you know. He wants to be sure you're the right fit."

I cleared my throat again. "Well, that's, um. That's perfect. We uh, we'll be gone this weekend, visiting family in Rhode Island, but-"

"Oh, perfect!" she interrupted. "My father actually lives in Rhode Island. He commutes into the city when he has to, but I'd prefer it if he didn't have to travel so much. Would this weekend work for you?" Her voice was full of excitement. I could barely contain my own.

"Absolutely, Ms. Mort- Tessa. Absolutely. I so look forward to meeting both of you."

We ironed out the details, and I pocketed my phone. When I got to the car, I had to sit for awhile with my face in my hands, cheeks sore from how wide I was smiling. 

Daniel had been my number one fan, my biggest supporter, even before my relative success in writing. I wished he could have been there to share in the moment with me. I knew he’d be proud.

\--

Lea had a skinned elbow and ripped pants from falling while playing chase at recess. She showed off her pink camo bandaids with pride. I added _make sure Lea puts on a new pair of pants_ to my mental checklist, wondering how many wardrobe changes the family would have to go through before day's end.

Emma was sitting on the front steps outside the high school, engrossed once again in her book. Lea leaned over me to call out to her through the open window.

"Where's your sister?" I asked Emma. 

She just shrugged, gesturing vaguely behind her.

"Well, could you find her, please?" I asked. "We have to stop home and get Lea a change of pants before we leave."

Emma dropped her bag in the backseat and walked away, skirting the front of the building. I watched in my side view mirror as she stopped beside a large tree, where Claire's wavy blonde hair was just barely visible around a dark-haired boy. "Oh, no she doesn't," I said, throwing the car in reverse.

I pulled around the side of the pickup loop and stopped in front of them, honking loudly. Claire and the boy both startled, jumping apart. "Claire," I called out the window. "We've gotta hit the road, honey bee. Say goodbye to your friend."

Her nostrils flared in mortification and she turned, head shaking, to say her goodbyes to the boy. "Have a nice trip, Mr. Shurley!" he called, waving politely. I gave a nod and brief raise of my hand in return as my two girls approached the car.

"Are you kidding me?" Claire huffed, tossing her bag into the back seat and leaning in to glare at me. "Literally everyone is looking at me like I'm some kind of freak right now, thanks to you."

I peered around, noticing a few wayward glances, but nothing too life-ending. 

"You're fine," I told her. "I'm sure your boyfriend will understand."

She sighed. "His _name_ is Marcos, and we're just friends.”

“I’m sure. Get in the car.”

Claire tossed her hair and sat, slamming the door shut.

Emma had come around to the driver's side window, where she stood holding out her hand and smiling as if nothing had happened.

"Long trip," she said. "You don't want to do it all alone, now do you?"

"Emma, no."

Her face fell instantly. "Dad, come _on!_ Please? I’ll never learn if you don’t let me drive."

"But, if I let you, you may not live,” I said, trying for a joke.

She rolled her eyes and stomped around to the back passenger side. I tried to make eye contact with her as I pulled away, but she and Claire sat staring out their respective windows in bitter silence. I pointed the car toward home.

“I think your sisters are mad at me,” I said to Lea, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Duh,” she said.

“Why do you think that is?”

Lea seemed to consider it a moment. “You’re a good father, but sometimes you’re a bad dad.”

I frowned into the just-setting sun ahead of us. “Who told you to say that?”

“No one, I thought of it myself,” she said. Her little feet stuck out between the front seats, and she began kicking them irritably.

“You can tell me,” I said. “Was it Emma or Claire?”

“I thought of it myself!” Lea insisted, emphasizing her point with a hard kick to the center console.

“Lea—”

“I thought of it myself! I thought of it myself!”

All three girls sat in the back during the five hour drive to Rhode Island. They didn't speak to me the whole way.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_“You can’t choose your family, as they say, and no—you can’t choose the people with whom you share blood or genetic ties. But more often than not, even when it seems like everything is pointing to the contrary, your family (blood relation or no) has your best interest at heart.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

We reached Newport by nightfall, slightly later than anticipated as I'd been pulled over for speeding just down the road from the city limits. Emma was very unsympathetic to my woes.

The girls piled out of the car when we arrived at the house, leaving all of their bags behind. I got out and stretched, feeling the way my lower back popped and my hips clicked. I was still in my early forties, but I could see fifty looming in the distance, getting closer all the time. 

I looked east to the bay beyond the enormous backyard. My family home was large, but comfortable, well lived-in and maintained lovingly by my parents. We had never been extremely wealthy, but my upper-middle class upbringing had been a blessing. Our large family of five children fit well into the 3,000 square foot house. The sprawling landscape was also perfect for games of touch football or water balloon fights, picnics and parties and weddings. 

Both of my brothers had gotten married in the backyard, and I knew that my youngest sister, Anna, hoped to have her wedding there, too. Daniel and I had had our commitment ceremony back home in New Jersey, and had always talked about having a real wedding once it was legal, right here at my family home. If he’d lived for just one more month, we could have done it.

I shut my eyes, hearing the hubbub coming from inside the house. There would be eighteen people staying this weekend, and the number just kept growing each year. Despite the tense ride over, I was excited to see my family again, and to meet my two new nieces for the first time. I grabbed all four of our bags from the trunk and went inside.

Dad was the first to see me, throwing his arms wide and calling out, “Hey! There he is!” I dropped the bags by the front door and hugged him, then Luke and his wife, Amelia; Hannah and her husband Greg; Gabe and his wife, Kelli, and their two sons. I stopped to marvel at how tall my oldest nephew had gotten. “Say something,” I told him.

“Something,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

“It happened!” I said, high-fiving him.

My nieces came by, one by one, to hug me. I picked up the littlest ones and gave them a kiss on the cheek. Hannah had to crouch down to encourage Lucy and Li-an to give me a hug. I knelt down to their level and smiled wide. “Hi, guys,” I said. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’m your uncle, Cas.” 

The twins were three by the time Hannah and Greg finally brought them home from China, around Thanksgiving last year. We hadn’t met them yet, but I’d seen so many pictures on Facebook that I felt like I already had. They didn’t seem to feel the same kinship, both hiding halfway behind Hannah, peering up at her and and back to me.

“I know, it’s confusing how much he looks like Mommy, huh?” Hannah said. 

“They’ll come around,” I said, smiling at my sister. 

I got up and strode toward Anna, who was standing with her hands behind her back, smiling impishly at me. Anna was the youngest, and since I was the oldest, we’d always had a bit of a bond. I was old enough to be her father, and sometimes it felt like I actually was. She was less mature than Emma, by far, and just as boy-crazy as Claire. “Hey, Annie-Banannie,” I said, throwing my arms around her. She clung on tight, leaning back an inch to smack a loud kiss on my cheek.

“Cassie, I met someone!” she said.

“Ooh, do tell.”

“Nope.” She booped me on the nose for emphasis. “You’ll see tomorrow. He’s coming here for the weekend!”

I nodded approvingly. “That’s very exciting. Where’d you meet him?”

She laughed. “At the gym! He’s a personal trainer or he teaches crossfit or something. I signed up for a membership just so I could flirt with him.”

I snorted. “Classy.”

Anna whacked me on the arm. “Hey, I swear I had a good reason. My new job has me sitting for like ten hours a day! I’m not just gonna _not_ work out.”

“Mhmm,” I teased. “So, how is the new job?”

Anna waved her hand in a see-saw motion. “Eh. I don’t know if I like it.”

“Anna, don’t tell me you’re going to quit again.”

She was already walking away, not wanting to hear my lecture. “Relax, Cas, I’ll figure it out. Love you!” 

I shook my head and met eyes with my mom across the room. She had a strange look on her face. When I approached her for a hug, she leaned up to whisper into my ear, “What happened with the girls?”

Craning my neck around, I spotted all three of them talking with Luke’s wife, Amelia—their biological mother. Even though they only got to see her once or twice a year, they Skyped often and had a great relationship with her. It made me happy.

“They’re just..." I began, not really knowing what to say. Mom seemed to understand, though. 

She nodded once and took my arm, steering me toward the dining room where dinner was already set out. “Give ‘em some space. They’ll be alright.”

\--

The house had six bedrooms—two for all eight of the kids, one for Mom and Dad, and one for each of the three married couples. Daniel and I used to occupy one of them before Hannah and Greg were married. Since Anna had a date for the weekend, Hannah graciously offered up the room to them, offering that she and her husband could take the pull-out couch in the living room. After dinner, Mom showed me to a cot she’d set up in the laundry room for me. I sat heavily on it.

“Everything alright, sweetie?” Mom asked, leaning into the doorway.

I realized I’d been staring into space—maybe all night. I blinked a few times. “Yeah, Mom. I’m good.”

Her brows pinched together in disbelief, but I knew she wouldn’t pry. We said goodnight and she closed the door with a soft _click_.

I lay awake listening to the rumble of the dryer and the snoring and shifting of my family members in the rooms all around me. Birds were already chirping by the time I got to sleep.

I woke to the smell of batter and bacon and dark roast, the sounds of metal scraping porcelain and the chatter of over a dozen excited voices. Pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and made an appearance in the kitchen.

Breakfast with the entire Shurley family was always a little chaotic, but still enjoyable. My father was at his station at the griddle, heaping stacks of pancakes onto a platter. He was wearing that same raggedy blue robe as always, just like every Saturday morning from my childhood. If not for the graying of his hair, I’d never know the difference. 

My mom had laid out jugs and jugs of juices—orange, cranberry, apple, sugar-free, with pulp and without, heart-healthy and “diet” and no-sugar-added. She was standing at the kitchen island stirring up a batch of iced tea. I shook my head at her as I navigated around Luke to get to one of the carafes of coffee that were placed all around the kitchen.

There was a chorus of, “Morning, Cas!” from everyone but my daughters. Lea greeted me with a “Good morning, Dad,” so I patted her head as I made my way to the plate of bacon and snagged a piece with my fingers.

“You sleep at all?” my father asked. I realized I must look as tired as I felt. I just nodded briefly and retreated to the bathroom with my coffee.

\--

After breakfast, everyone broke off into little groups to talk or play games or watch the football game on TV. I stayed in the kitchen, helping my parents clean up. I could see Emma and Claire through the window, sitting on the porch with Anna. Anna was just out of college and much closer to their age than an aunt had any right to be, in my opinion, and I watched their faces lighting up as she gestured excitedly, chattering away about something. I couldn’t help but feel a little bitter. It had been such a long time since my girls had looked at me with even remotely that much interest.

There was a hand on my shoulder. “They’re teenagers, honey,” Mom said. “They’re supposed to hate you a little bit.”

I smiled and wiped my hands on my pants, ignoring her _tsk_.

“I never hated you guys when I was a teenager,” I reminded her.

Dad piped up from the back counter where he was screwing caps back onto juice jugs. “Girls are different,” he said. “I don’t think Hannah talked to me once in the nineties. Heck, Anna still thinks I’m ‘super lame,’ and she’s not even a teenager anymore.”

I snorted. It was true. She’d said it just last night at dinner when she’d tried to get Dad excited about something on Twitter.

“Why don’t you just give ‘em some space,” Mom said. She had her arm around my waist. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and we leaned into each other.

“And while you’re at it, give _yourself_ some space. You’re too hard on yourself,” she said. “Why don’t you go out and get some fresh air, huh? Maybe you just need some time alone to relax. How does that sound?”

Truthfully, it sounded like heaven, but it seemed horrible to admit that. Mom squeezed me around the middle and smiled like she knew just what I was thinking. “Go on,” she said. “Get out of here. I’m sick of lookin’ at you.”

I laughed and kissed the top of her head. Dad clapped me on the back on my way out the door.

There were a lot of bookstores in Newport, but the closest to the house was a little mom-and-pop place that had been there since I was a kid. It was close enough to be reached by bicycle, so I'd spent many an afternoon there as a child, browsing the Mysteries and the Best Sellers, hiding behind the shelves to sit against the wall and read to my heart's content. Emma may not have been biologically mine, but she'd still taken after me, in that regard.

I found myself drawn in that direction, my body taking me there before my brain could even get on board. Not that I minded.

The man behind the counter was Mr. Turner, the same grey-haired, curmudgeonly shopkeeper that had always been there, and as I stepped in and nodded politely at his scowling face, I wondered for the thousandth time why he didn't just close up shop and sell the place. He'd never seemed to like customers much. _Or_ , I thought, _maybe he just never seemed to like me_. 

I headed straight for the middle shelving unit where I knew I'd find the Mystery/Thriller section. The titles were dusty with disuse and somewhat out of order, and I suspected that the unpleasant owner of the store was also its sole employee. Thinking I could help out a bit, I began to reorganize the books in alphabetical order by author as I scanned through for anything I hadn’t yet read. The tedious activity was calming, and I soon fell into a rhythm.

I ignored the tinkling of the bell over the door and a quiet, rumbling exchange of voices. I’d almost completed one side of the shelving unit when a voice, quite close by, asked, “Excuse me, can I get your help with something?”

I was momentarily stunned when I turned and met the eyes of perhaps the most attractive man I’d ever seen in real life. He was tall—taller than me, even—and around my age, if not a few years younger. I squinted at him, appraising his square jaw and his full lips, the long eyelashes cresting over leaf-green eyes, the faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. On a younger man, the combination might be _too_ pretty, but on his handsomely-aged face, with its smile lines and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, it was perfect.

I cleared my throat, realizing I’d been staring for a beat too long. “Ah, yes, what can I help you with?”

The man smiled at me, and I felt an honest-to-god flutter in my chest. “I need a book,” he said. His voice was liquid honey and fire, tinged with the barest hint of a southern twang.

He thought I worked there. An easy assumption to make, seeing as I’d been shelving books. I smiled back, going along with it. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“I’m not really sure,” he said. “That’s why I need help. I’m looking for a gift. Something kinda special, I guess, but not _too_ special.”

I nodded, taking an Agatha Christie off the shelf and holding it in the crook of my elbow. I started moving along the rows of books, looking for anything special. The man followed.

“Something kinda classic, maybe? Or classy,” he went on. I took a detour to the classics, pulling out a book at random and settling it on top of the Christie. I pulled two more and moved on.

“Maybe like… I dunno, romantic?”

Here I paused and looked back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay, scratch romance,” he said. “Just, you know. Something good. Unique. Funny, maybe. But smart.”

I pulled a book from the top shelf of the _Independent Titles_ section, grabbed one off the stack on the _Self-Help_ table. I detoured to the _Comedies_ and picked two, then selected three slim volumes from a shelf housing _Sci-Fi and Fantasy_. When my arms were full, I led the man to the back of the room and laid out all of the selections on top of a waist-high bookshelf.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” I said, spreading them out. Before us was a random smattering of literature and prose, non-fiction and satire. Titles like _Cockpit: Confessions of an Airline Pilot_ and _Monstrous Regiment_ jumped out at me. “Well, this looks like a sort of a… vegan cupcake cookbook,” I said, gesturing to a colorful hardback. “Um. Here’s a series about,” I picked up one of the three sci-fi books and scanned the back, “an alternate universe wherein the world is a disc riding on the back of four elephants, riding on the back of a... giant sea turtle…”

I trailed off, blushing. The man was smirking at me, not unkindly.

 _I apologize, I don’t really work here. It’s just that you caught me off guard, and I thought I could help, but I really have no idea what I’m doing._ The words were right there on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t seem to speak. We just looked at one another for what was surely too long. There seemed to be sparks flying, or perhaps I was having a stroke. Either way, he appeared to be having a similar reaction. He eventually lowered his gaze, long eyelashes nearly brushing his cheekbones.

“You uh, you just pulled all these outta your ass, didn’t you?” he asked. There was a laugh in his voice, and I’m sure that I must have blushed.

“Um, yes. Yes I did.” 

He laughed aloud, the gesture breaking his face into a wide, toothy grin. I felt like I was watching the sun rise on a cold day.

“That’s okay, man,” he said. “I know I was being pretty vague.” He examined the books in front of us, shifting them around and picking a few of them up to read the back covers or inside flaps. “You know, this one actually looks good.” He held up the first book I’d chosen—the Christie. _And Then There Were None_.

“That’s one of my favorites,” I said.

He looked at me with an unreadable expression for a moment, absentmindedly tapping the book on the table, then cleared his throat. “You know, uh, I think I’ll get another one, too.” He grabbed the vegan cupcake cookbook and stacked the two together in his hands with the Christie on top. He stroked his fingers over the embossed title. “Probably just keep this one for myself.”

It felt like some sort of declaration, or else the start of an unanswered question. I opened my mouth to reply, but the man just smirked again and held out a hand. “I’m Dean,” he said.

“Cas- Castiel,” I stammered. “Cas.”

“Cas,” he repeated. “Nice to meet you, Cas. You know what? I’m gonna take ‘em all.”

Before I had a chance to process that, he’d scooped all of the books up into his arms and walked away toward the front of the store. I followed quickly but hung back at the counter, realizing that _now would be an excellent time to clarify that I didn’t in fact work here_ , but Dean was already speaking to the owner.

“This guy’s great,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder at me.

I tried to brush him off with a wave of my hand and an _it was nothing, really,_ but he cut me off.

“He deserves a raise,” he said, and winked at me. I wanted to melt into the floor and levitate off the ground all at once.

Mr. Turner craned his neck around to scowl at me. “He don’t work here.” It might have been the first time I’d ever heard him speak.

I hoped my sheepish expression would be enough to prevent the gorgeous stranger from getting angry or storming out of the shop, though he had every right to both reactions. Instead, he laughed again, that charming smirk catching me off guard. “Well he should,” Dean told him.

He bought all of the books.

We exited the shop together, spurred on by the intense dislike radiating from Mr. Turner. On the way to the car, I apologized for not mentioning that I didn’t work there, for pretending to help, for the fact that Dean had just spent a ridiculous amount of money on books that he didn’t need. He waved me off with the assurance that he’d read them all, that they were special just because I’d chosen them.

Emboldened, I asked Dean if he’d like to get a cup of coffee. “There’s a little café right there,” I said, thumbing at the row of shops across the street.

He shifted the bag of books to his right arm, checking his watch. “Yeah, I got some time.”

\--

We sat outside on a bench by the docks, sipping our coffee and talking. I learned that Dean was from New York and was just ‘passing through.’ I learned that he’d grown up in rural Kansas—here he exaggerated his accent a bit, and it made my heart skip a beat—that he’d moved to the city to aid his brother in his dream of opening his own fitness center. He preferred movies to books, which was fine, though he assured me that he was very excited to read the sci-fi series about the disc world.

He asked me about myself—where I grew up (here), where I lived now (New Jersey), what I was doing all the way back in Newport. I told him I was visiting family with my daughters. His face lit up when I mentioned my girls, so I told him all about them—how Emma was my mini-me, intelligent and quiet and ready to leave us all behind for a University; how Claire was a little spitfire, boy-crazy and brash, but so incredibly strong that it made my heart swell; how Lea was sweet as anything, how I tried so desperately to respect her as a young lady, even though she’d always be my little girl. 

Dean looked a little wistful when he said he’d always wanted kids, but he’d just never found the right person to settle down with. I clung to the word _‘person’_ like a lifeline. The chemistry between us was undeniable—if Dean’s lingering stares were anything to go by, I knew I couldn’t be the only one feeling it—but he was hard to read—charming in a way that meant that he might just have chemistry with everyone. Something told me that wasn’t the case, though.

We talked for what must have been hours but felt like mere minutes, losing complete track of time, and I didn’t notice how late it had gotten until Dean suddenly checked his phone and swore.

“Shit, how’d it get so late?” He stood and frowned, thumbing over his phone screen. I wondered if my family had been trying to get a hold of me, but didn’t care to check. The girls were probably dreading my return, anyway.

I stood and faltered, feeling the need to make a plan to see him again, not knowing if it would be appropriate to try. I couldn’t let him go, though. I was feeling like a human being again, and it was too much and not enough all at once. “How long will you be in town?” I began. It seemed a harmless question.

Dean lowered his phone, still frowning. He shook his head a bit as if to clear it. “Uh, just the long weekend. Just these three days.” He moved to gather our empty coffee cups and napkins. I followed him to the trash can, feeling a little desperate.

“Can I see you again? We could get coffee again tomorrow, or maybe Monday?” I asked. We started walking to our cars, still parked in the bookstore lot.

Dean’s frown intensified, his brow furrowed in thought. He opened his mouth and closed it, scrubbing a hand over his face. When we reached our cars, he spoke again. “Yeah, um, maybe. But, Cas…” he trailed off, leaning against his car—a sleek, black beauty of a thing—and sighed. “I gotta tell you, I’m seeing someone.”

My heart sank, but I nodded. I tried to tell myself that it should have been obvious; clearly, this incredible, charming, attractive man would be involved with someone. Obviously.

Leaving all sense of propriety behind, I said, “We could just get together again, as friends? Chat some more? I don’t really have that many friends, anymore, and this has been so nice, just talking to you. I feel like I don’t get to talk to many people, apart from my daughters. I work from home, you know, and I never get out to meet people anymore.” I knew I was rambling. I couldn’t help it. I had to keep him there, just for another minute, just for a few more minutes—

“I really gotta go,” he said.

I shut my mouth with a snap. 

He got into his car, sinking down into the worn leather seats, taking too much time to get his position just right, too much time checking his mirrors and fiddling with his keys. When he couldn’t stall any longer, he reached out to pull the door closed, but I stopped it with my hand, leaning in.

“Can I at least give you my number?” I said. “Just so you’ll have it. Just in case.”

Dean hesitated with his hand on the door. “Yeah. Okay.”

He pulled his phone out and I thumbed in my information. _Castiel S. Cell._

When he took it back, he looked at the new contact I’d created and smiled. “See you around, Cas,” he said, and I ducked out of the way so he could close himself in. He looked so apologetic as he pulled away that I could almost believe he’d rather have stayed.

\--

I lingered in the parking lot for a bit as I watched the yellow glow from his taillights fade. I walked back across the street and down to the docks, replaying our conversation, trying to remember the precise shade of his eyes. Leaf green, I’d decided, like sunlight through grass.

I was at a point in my life where I couldn’t care less how silly I was being, pining after a man I’d just met. I wasn’t getting any younger, and good men were so, so hard to find. There was no denying I was lonely. Daniel had been gone for three years, and the loneliness never abated. It only got worse. 

For a few hours, I’d felt a little bit whole again. I tried to let that fill up my empty places instead of letting its loss wear away at them even more.

I was in such a daze after leaving the docks that I completely blew through a red light. The same policeman that had pulled me over last night bid me a sarcastic _welcome to Rhode Island_ as he hastily scribbled out another ticket. I decided I wouldn't mention this one to anyone, especially Emma.

It was well past lunchtime when I got back to the house, and the girls were all gathered in the kitchen, baking and laughing.

“Daddy!” Lea called, jumping on me. I picked her up and gave her a big hug, grounding myself.

“Hi, little bee,” I said. She squirmed in my arms and I set her down. “Whatcha making?”

“We’re makiiiiing, cookies, and something with lemons, and turners, and a cake.” She pointed at each project in turn. I waited for someone to correct her and tell her they were called ‘ _turnovers,_ ’ not ‘ _turners,_ ’ but no one did. I suspected it had been a battle fought and lost.

“It smells great,” I said.

Anna must have sensed that something was off. She came around the kitchen island and took me by the arm, leading me away. “What’s up with you?” she asked.

“Um,” I said, sighing. It was no use keeping it from her—she’d weasel it out of me anyway. _Besides_ , I realized, it might be nice to talk to someone about it. “I… met someone.”

She squealed. I shushed her insistently, but it was too late.

“What?” Hannah asked.

“Nothing!” I said.

“Cas met someone!” Anna called out. 

There was a split second of stillness and eery quiet, and then the room burst out into shouts. I covered my face with my hands.

“Oh my god, Dad, WHAT?” Claire cried out.

“Who?”

“Where? Here?”

“What’s his name? Oh my god, Dad, was he cute?”

“Is who cute?” Gabriel asked, coming into the kitchen with an empty beer bottle in hand. I groaned.

“Cassie met someone!” Anna exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Anna, will you please stop?” I begged.

“Oooh,” Gabe cooed, coming over to us. “Was he cute?”

“Goddamnit,” I said into my hands.

“What’s going on?” I heard Luke ask.

“Nothing!”

It was too late, though. I heard many sets of feet headed our way. I was about to be surrounded. There was no escape.

“Cassie met a boy!” Anna said again.

I uncovered my face to glare at her, but she wasn’t looking at me.

“Babe, come here!” she called out, gesturing to someone behind my back. “I want you to meet my brother! Don’t mind him, he’s just embarrassed because he met a cute boy and we’re grilling him about it.”

I took a breath, ready to meet Anna’s new boyfriend with as much dignity as I could muster, although I knew my face would be beet-red. When I turned around, though, the air was punched right out of my lungs.

Standing before me was _Dean._

Dean, in my childhood home, surrounded by my family. Dean, being grabbed around the waist by my youngest sister. Dean, mouth agape, ears tinged with red.

“Dean, this is Cas,” Anna said. “Cas, Dean.”

“Uh, hey man,” he said.

_Fuck._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_“Some days will be better than others. Sometimes, you'll be so frustrated you'll want to scream. Every reaction is normal, so long as it's healthy. Whatever you do, don't repress.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

I must have been standing with my mouth open for too long.

“Cas, you okay?” Anna asked.

I allowed myself one more brief moment to shut my eyes and let my internal voice scream at the top of its lungs. But I was nothing if not an expert at repression. I opened my eyes and fixed a bright smile on my face. “Dean,” I said, holding out a hand for him to shake. I tried to quell my eagerness for the small amount of physical contact. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Dean, for his part, only hesitated a moment before gripping my hand and shaking, once. “Yeah, uh, same to you.”

“Sooo,” Anna drawled, winding her arms all the way around Dean’s waist from behind and resting a cheek against his bicep, “are you gonna tell us about this guy or not?”

I wanted to crawl away to a very dark place, never to return again. “ _Not,_ ” I said, trying very hard not to look at Dean.

“Oh, come on, big bro,” Gabe said, giving me a little punch on the shoulder. “We want the deets.”

I could feel a migraine building. I closed my eyes again and massaged the space over my left eyebrow with my thumb. “It’s really nothing.”

“Nothing?” Luke scoffed. “It’s not _nothing_ , Cassie. It’s gotta be, what, three years since you got laid?”

Everything stopped. I was aware of Luke’s wife smacking him in the chest, Hannah turning to him with a murderous look in her eye. A few of the kids said _‘ew.’_ I turned my eyes down to the floor and said nothing, hoping the awkwardness would be enough for everyone to just drop it. 

Fortunately, Luke seemed to understand his mistake. “Okay, sorry bro, that was insensitive.”

Anna released her death grip on Dean’s waist and came around to give me a hug. “It’s okay,” she whispered in my ear. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”

I caught Dean’s eye over her shoulder, hoping I could communicate with a look what I couldn’t voice—that this was a really embarrassing situation, but we’d just have to deal with it. He looked completely out of his depth. 

When Anna released me, the whole room took that as their cue to disperse, as if nothing had happened. The conversation and atmosphere turned a shade too cheerful to be realistic. I was used to my family members treating the situation of Daniel’s death like this—like it was something fragile, something to be handled with absolute care. 

I took the opportunity to clear my throat and approach Dean. “So, has Anna shown you around yet?”

“Uh, no,” he said, glancing at her and back to me. “No, I uh. Just got here a little while ago.”

“Well, let me give you the grand tour.” Placing a hand at his shoulder blade, I led him away and up the stairs. When we were safely out of earshot of everyone at the top landing, we faced each other.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I hissed, peering around at the bedrooms around us to make sure they were unoccupied. Dean followed me into one of the kids’ rooms and I shut the door. “I’m avoiding a shitstorm.”

“Why don’t we just tell everyone what happened?” Dean asked. “We can just kind of laugh it off, you know?”

“No, we’re going to pretend like it never happened. Because nothing _did_ happen. It was just coffee, right?” I hadn’t meant it as a challenge, but it still came out that way.

Dean looked at me warily. I just looked back.

“Trust me,” I said, finally breaking eye contact. “It’s best if Anna doesn’t find out about this.”

Dean nodded, turning away to gaze out the bay windows to the yard below where my nephews were playing. He looked so beautiful there in the waning sunlight, his eyes reflecting the yellowing leaves of the giant maple just outside the window. It made my heart ache. But, Anna—

“While we’re on the subject.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall to his left, catching his eye. “Anna, Dean? _Really_? She’s only twenty-four years old. You’ve got to be, what, ten years older than her?”

He winced. “Twelve, actually.”

“Oh my god.”

“Look, she’s h—” he began, then snapped his mouth shut.

“Were you going to say ‘she’s hot?’ Please don’t tell me you were about to use ‘she’s hot’ as your justification for dating a girl nearly half your age.”

“She’s not half my age,” Dean said, rounding on me. “Look, we’ve only been together for a few weeks. And yeah, she’s _attractive_ , obviously, but she’s also smart, and funny as hell, and sweet, and she’s just… she’s _fun_ , man.”

I sighed at the epithet, wondering if the repeated usage was just part of his normal vocabulary, or if he used the terms to appear more macho.

“I haven’t been with someone that fun since… god, since college.”

“That’s because she is only recently out of college herself,” I bit.

“Okay, fine,” Dean said, throwing his arms out wide, teasing me. “She’s way too young for me. Happy?”

_No._

No, I really wasn’t.

\--

I found myself at the kitchen window again, some time later, watching Emma and Claire with Anna and Dean out on the porch. My two girls seemed infatuated with him, leaning forward in their seats, chins in their hands, listening raptly. 

Lea came by and tugged at my shirt, saying she wanted to show me something. “In a bit, little bee,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t be able to give her my full attention just now.

I don’t know how long I was standing there before Dean caught my eye through the window, but I pretended not to notice, grabbing a dish out of the sink and giving it a good scrub. My father found me like that, washing the same cup for god knows how long.

He set his empty coffee mug down on the counter next to the sink, squeezing me in that tense spot right between my neck and shoulder. “You’ll find somebody,” he said, clear blue eyes full of certainty.

I looked away from the window and back down at the cup in my hands. It was clean. I kept scrubbing.

Dad and Luke started up the grill and began preparing an early dinner—chicken kabobs with colorful bell peppers, hamburgers, a few bratwurst and hot dogs, and even a few veggie burgers for Hannah and Greg, who were raising a vegetarian family. As the sun sank low in the sky, the kids set up an intense game of hide and seek spanning the whole property. Anna was playing with them. I sat on the back porch steps, laughing as Alfie, who was _it_ , walked right underneath Lea in her tree-top hiding spot. She gave me a thumbs-up from above.

Someone sat down next to me. It only took a moment for me to know that it was Dean. He smelled nice, though I couldn’t say if it were cologne or aftershave or just _him_.

“Those are your girls, right?” he asked, nodding toward Emma and Claire. They could be seen from this vantage point, crouching down between the shed and the little boat parked there.

“Yep,” I smiled. “Those two, and that little monkey up there.” I nodded up at Lea in the tree, trying to be subtle so Alfie wouldn’t notice.

“They’re great kids,” Dean said. “Especially the oldest one, what’s her name?”

“Emma.”

“Emma, right. She’s got a great head on her shoulders. I can see where she gets it from.”

I couldn't help but scoff a bit. “She’s _much_ smarter than me, and she knows it. I’m so proud of her, though. All of them, really.”

“That one,” Dean nodded his head in the direction of my daughters. “Claire? God, she reminds me so much of myself at that age.”

A soft laugh escaped me. “I can see that. She’s so much like her father.”

I hadn’t meant to say it, but there it was. I’d suspected for a long time that that was the reason it was so difficult for me to handle her—she was so bold and passionate and outgoing. It reminded me painfully of Daniel.

I could see Dean looking at me in my periphery, but I kept my eyes ahead, scanning the bay and the boats beyond, watching as the gulls flew against the mild sea winds, seeming to stay in place.

“He- my husband,” I began, faltering. I had to clear my throat. “Daniel. He died, three years ago. Cancer.”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean said, reaching out to me. He only hesitated a bit before placing a hand on my arm, squeezing it once. “I’m so sorry.” 

We sat like that for a moment, gazing out into the yard together. He gave me another squeeze before pulling his hand back and folding it with the other between his knees. “I was wonderin’ what that weirdness with your brother was about this afternoon. God, what a shitty thing to say.”

I snorted, finally pulling my eyes back, resting them on Dean. “That’s Luke for you.”

We shared another one of those long glances—the kind that lasted far too long and not nearly long enough—until my father’s voice rang out, “Alright, everybody! Dinner’s ready!” 

The spell was broken. We each stood and stretched and brushed off our pants as if nothing had happened, as if the world weren’t slightly more tilted on its axis.

I watched as Lea tried to negotiate her footing on the tree branch above our heads, looking uncertain about how to get down. Dean stepped off the porch and came to stand just beneath her, opening his arms wide above him. 

"Come here, you little monkey," he said. "I got you." 

I watched anxiously as Lea dangled her legs over the branch and then let herself slip off. Dean caught her easily, swinging her around and setting her squarely on his shoulders as if she weighed nothing. 

"How'd you get all the way up there?" he asked her. 

"I'm really good at climbing," she said. 

I fell into step behind them as they followed the other kids up the stairs and into the house.

"I can see that," Dean said. "Who taught you how to climb like that? Was it your daddy?" He turned to give me a wink over his shoulder.

Lea laughed. "No, Dad's not very good at outdoors stuff."

Dean guffawed. “I like your bandaid.”

“Thank you.”

I smiled, letting them lead me into the house, listening fondly as they chattered away. The sight of my little girl sitting atop his broad shoulders, little feet kicking happily, made my heart swell and break a little at the same time.

\--

My father had made an elongated, picnic-style dining table several years back after we could no longer fit all of the adults in the dining room. Even with the addition of a smaller arrangement for the youngest kids, it was a struggle fitting the remaining fourteen people at the table. I ended up in the very middle, with Anna sitting directly across from me, as always. Unfortunately, this meant that I was also seated across from Dean. It took everything I had to keep my eyes from straying to his.

After we’d completed the haphazard passing of dishes and platters, spearing corn for one another and scooting tubs of butter closer or further away, conversation immediately picked up.

“So, Dean,” my mother began from her seat at the head of the table, “tell us about yourself. What do you do, all that good stuff. Anna hasn’t really told us much.”

Dean finished chewing and wiped his mouth with a napkin, clearing his throat. He looked at Anna with a little sparkle in his eye. “What, you embarrassed of me or something?”

She just laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. My eye roll was unintentional, but also completely unavoidable.

“No, I uh, you all probably know I live in New York City,” he said. “Moved there from Kansas about four years ago. I work at a gym up there—do a little personal training, a little teaching, that kind of thing.”

I noticed that Dean left out all of the personal details he’d included when he’d told me the story yesterday—how his parents passed away early on, how he’d done roofing and lawn care and a million odd jobs to support his brother through his long years of schooling, how the two of them had saved up for years to move to the city and open up the now-successful fitness center. I looked to Anna to see if she’d noticed anything odd, but she was just looking at him and smiling like she’d heard this all before. I wondered if Dean had told her the full story at all.

“That’s so cool,” Claire said. “Can you train me?”

Dean laughed. “Sure. Maybe tomorrow we can all do a group fitness class. How’s that sound?”

There were a few enthusiastic murmurs and quite a few groans. I caught Emma’s eye across the table, knowing she’d be one of the dissenters. I smiled at her, but she was giving me a funny look.

Everyone kept up a steady stream of questions, and while Dean was charming and candid as ever, I noticed again and again how he seemed to subtly steer the conversation away from anything too personal.

The questions came from all sides.

“So, do you live alone?”

“What did you think of Anna when you first saw her?”

“How do you feel about kids?”

“Are you gonna come back for Thanksgiving?”

“Have you talked about moving in together?”

I’d had enough. “Hey, everybody, why don’t you lay off, huh?” I said. Over a dozen sets of eyes snapped to me. “Why don’t we give the guy a break? He’s obviously not comfortable. And, hell,” I continued, the word vomit already halfway out of my mouth, “they’ve been together, what two, three weeks? You’re trying to get them to move in together? Asking if he’s coming to Thanksgiving? Let’s be realistic.”

I very intently looked away and down at my plate, setting to work removing chunks of chicken and bell pepper from a shishkabob stick. Falling into silence, I was aware of the instant relief from Dean as the focus was shifted away from him and onto me. I could feel the curious glances being thrown my way by my brother and sisters in law and the anger and annoyance radiating off of Anna and my other siblings and, inexplicably, my daughters. My parents were giving me looks, too, though I couldn’t exactly tell what they meant.

“Geez, what’s up your ass this weekend, Cas?” Luke asked.

“Seriously,” Gabe said. “We’ve really gotta get you laid. No pun intended.”

“Well, about that,” my mother said, and _oh god,_ I never thought I’d have to hear something like that from one of my parents.

I groaned. “Mother, _please_ , not you too.”

“No, come on, Castiel,” she chided, her tone bringing me back to my childhood. “Just listen. You know Mrs. D’Angelo from the post office? Well, she was telling me that her son is back in town, and—”

“Oh my god, Mikey?” Gabe laughed. “Fat little Mikey D’Angelo?”

“Gabriel,” our mother said. “Don’t be rude. Anyway, as I was saying, Mrs. D’Angelo says that he’s back in town for the weekend, and he’s single, _and_ he’s interested in men.”

“Oh god.” I put my face in my hands.

Luke clapped his hands together. “Oh, yeah. This is gonna be good.”

“So!” My mother continued, undeterred, “he’s coming over tonight. No discussion.” She held up a hand, as if that settled it.

Yes, Michael D’Angelo had been pretty unpopular, and yes, he’d always been a little overweight and acne-ridden, but he was a nice person. I’d always felt bad for him, especially since my brothers were some of his biggest bullies. Still, I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t even begin to muster the energy necessary to _try_ to be interested.

All eyes were on me again—even Anna’s, though she still seemed to be upset. I couldn’t blame her. What I’d said had been uncalled for, and I was already feeling guilty about it.

“It’ll be good for you to get out a bit,” my mother reasoned. “Even if nothing comes of it. You two always seemed to like each other. Wouldn’t it be nice to see a fresh face around here?”

Perhaps out of concern for me, or as a way to try to make up for the awkwardness I’d just had to endure on his behalf, Dean said, “We could make it a double date?” He nudged Anna. “Right, babe?”

Anna shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I’d like to go out.”

“Cool,” Dean said. “That okay with you, Cas?”

Going on a date with a man I had no interest in while being accompanied by the _only_ man I’d had any interest in in years, who happened to be dating my twenty-four year old sister, did not seem like it would be _cool_. But, then again, I knew everyone was concerned about me. _I_ was starting to be concerned about me.

I was starting to wish we had gone with Dean’s plan—explained the situation that had happened at the bookstore and laughed it off like it was all some big joke—but it was too late for that, now. And besides, it hadn’t really felt like it was anything to laugh about.

_Fuck it._

“Yeah,” I conceded. “Why not.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_“Communication is key, dear reader. It may sound cliché, but it really is that simple. The easiest and most successful way to a common ground in any interpersonal relationship is a healthy, open line of communication. Passive aggression gets us nowhere. Pettiness gets us nowhere, faster.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

The girls seemed to forgive me—at least enough to help me get ready for the date. I pulled out my overnight bag and laid out the shirts I’d brought on the cot in the laundry room. Both Emma and Claire vetoed all of them, saying they made me look too old. Gabe tried to get me into one of his paisley shirts, but I refused.

In the end, Hannah found an acceptable deep blue button-down among her husband’s clothes, and since we were around the same size, it fit well enough. I paired it with brown slacks. The outfit got approval from Emma and an “eh,” from Claire, which I knew was probably the best I’d get from her.

Just before the time when Michael was to arrive, I shut myself in the bathroom and stared blankly at my own reflection for a few minutes. I had to get a grip. Dean was with Anna. Hell, it should have made me happy that my sister had found someone so wonderful—so caring and thoughtful and intelligent, charming and beautiful and full of life—but I couldn’t help the jealousy.

I sighed, appraising my face. My hair was a mess, but that could be taken care of with a comb and a little water. I paid no attention to the bags under my eyes—they were always there these days. I decided that I could stand to shave a bit, having gone several days without doing so. I hadn’t noticed the stubble that had accumulated around my jaw and under my nose. Some of it was grey. 

Five minutes later, having shaved and combed and sprayed a bit of cologne, I headed for the living room. The youngest children had been put to bed, but the rest of the family was gathered there, chatting over the quiet hum of the TV. Everyone but Anna gave me varying levels of approval on my outfit. I figured I should probably take her aside and apologize, though I had no idea what I’d say. _I’m sorry I’ve been acting like a jealous teenager, but your boyfriend seems to have warmed up to me more in a few hours than he has to you in a few weeks?_ I quickly tamped down that bitterness. 

Dean entered the room, then. He’d styled his hair a bit and donned a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a pair of nicely-fitting khaki pants. He looked so gorgeous that I had to look away before anyone could catch me staring. I wished I could tell him that he looked great; that, though he looked handsome in just rumpled jeans and a threadbare shirt, in this outfit he was _stunning_.

Before he’d even taken his place next to Anna, Dean looked me up and down and cleared his throat. “Cas, you clean up nice, man.”

All I could manage in return was to nod and say, “You too.”

“How do _I_ look?” Anna asked Dean, hands held out to the sides to show off her form-fitting dress.

Dean took her by the waist, telling her she looked beautiful. I looked away before they kissed.

“So, Cassie,” Gabe said, sidling up next to me and slinging an arm over my shoulders. “You ready for your big date?”

“Gabriel, please be nice to Michael,” I said. “You too, Luke. Both of you, just be adults.”

Luke scoffed. “Oh, relax, Cas. That was what, twenty years ago? We’re not gonna shove him into a locker.”

“Or give him a wedgie,” Gabe added.

“Or a swirlie.”

“Or make any fat jokes.”

“Well—”

“ _Boys_ ,” our mother said. Her voice was firm, but kind. She knew they were joking, but she could also probably sense the tension rolling off of me in waves.

Gabe gave me a little squeeze. “I promise we’ll be nice to Mikey, Cas. Don’t worry. And hey, maybe it’ll work out, huh? Who knows?”

\--

Not much later, a knock came at the door. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling my heart rate pick up. I wasn’t nervous for the date, I was just anxious to get the show on the road—to have it over and done with. Dad opened the door, and there on the porch was… someone. Someone tall and lean, with black hair and piercing eyes. If Dean looked like a Hollywood star, this man looked like an underwear model. My heart rate kicked up another few notches against my will.

“Mr. Shurley!” the man said, reaching out to shake my father’s hand. “Been a while!”

“Michael, come on in. You look great!”

 _That_ was _Michael_? Mikey D’Angelo? The chubby boy I’d had to rescue from my infuriatingly immature younger brothers, time and time again? Looking around the room at my siblings’ four identical shocked expressions, I knew I wasn’t the only one who was surprised.

He stepped inside and looked around the room, waving at Hannah, skipping right over Gabriel and Luke, throwing out his arms for a hug from my mother. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she blushed. 

Michael hugged Anna, saying how grown up she was, that she looked gorgeous. “Mikey, this is my boyfriend, Dean,” she said.

“Michael,” he corrected, holding out a hand for Dean to shake.

Dean shook once, roughly. “Pleasure.”

“We’re gonna join you and Cas, if you don’t mind,” Anna said. She gestured to me across the room.

Michael turned, his eyes landing on me.

“No,” he purred, looking me up and down. “I don’t mind one bit.”

Michael sauntered over to me and took my hand. “Wow, Cas,” he said. “You look, wow.” I thought wow was a little generous, especially coming from someone who looked like they could be the face of Calvin Klein. “Um, sorry,” he went on. “You look really good. C’mere.” He pulled me into a hug.

Over his shoulder, I locked eyes with Dean. He was glaring daggers at Michael’s back. I hugged Michael a little tighter, running my hands a few inches down and across his back, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. Dean’s jaw clenched.

We pulled away and I held onto Michael’s arms, getting a better look at him. “Wow, you look incredible.”

“Thank you,” Michael said, like it was nothing. “So do you.”

“Okay,” Dean called out, clapping his hands once. “Who’s ready to get this show on the road?”

I wasn’t stupid—I knew Dean was jealous. I’d seen it in his face. They way he’d been looking at Michael was surely the same way I’d been looking at my sister all weekend. It wasn’t right. Even so, I couldn’t help the thrill that ran up my spine when I thought about it.

I sent Lea off to bed with a kiss to her hair. She reminded me she had something to show me. “Tomorrow, little bee, I promise,” I told her.

I said goodnight to Emma and Claire, waved a general goodbye to everyone else, and let Michael push me gently out the door with a hand to my lower back.

Dean was standing by Michael’s car with his arms crossed, head tilted in appraisal. It was a shiny red number, sleek and fast-looking and obviously expensive. Dean looked like he was struggling to keep his excitement hidden.

“This the new Stingray?” he asked without looking up.

“Yep,” Michael said, going around to the driver’s seat. “Brand new. Get in!” He opened his door and hit a button with his foot, shifting the seat forward and making space for someone to climb into the backseat.

Dean scoffed. “Thanks but no thanks, there, Mikey. I think I’ll just follow you there.” He thumbed over his shoulder at his beautiful black car, parked further back in the long driveway.

“That old thing?” Michael said with a predatory grin. “Suit yourself. Cas?”

I watched Dean fume as he stalked away toward his car, watched Anna hesitate, hand extended, to stroke the smooth lines of Michael’s Corvette.

“You wanna come with us, Anna?” Michael asked.

She looked torn, but eventually said, “No, that’s okay. It’s really beautiful, though.”

Michael winked at her and got in the driver’s seat, revving the engine. Behind us, there was a low growl as Dean started his car. Michael peeled out of the driveway with more speed than necessary, glancing back to see Dean’s progress in his rearview mirror.

Michael was nearly ten years younger than me, and his maturity level seemed to be hovering just above Anna’s. But I was in a convertible sports car with a man who looked like an underwear model, and Gabe and Luke were right—it had been far, far too long since I’d had a little fun. I closed my eyes, letting the wind whip through my hair. I could let go for one night.

Michael brought us to one of the nicer bars near town, mercifully neither a dive nor a club. He told me to wait in the car while he strode around to open my door. Dean rolled his eyes when he saw, but when we all walked into the bar together, he made a show of holding the front door open for everyone—even Michael.

The atmosphere inside was pleasant. The music was tolerable, and there was no stale cigarette smell or smoke. The four of us sat at a high-top table, Michael to my left, Anna across from him, Dean across from me. I picked up the double-sided appetizer and cocktail menu and perused it just for something to look at. We ordered drinks and sat listening to the pop ballad on the juke box until Anna broke the silence.

"So, Michael, I've gotta say it. You look amazing! How did you do it? You must have lost, what, 50 pounds?"

I shot Anna a glare across the table, but Michael just laughed. "Closer to 75, but yeah.” He lifted up the hem of his shirt, showing off what could easily be described as an eight-pack, rather than a mere six-pack. “You know, just good old-fashioned diet and exercise."

Anna ‘ _oohed_ ’ at him. I couldn’t help but stare a bit, myself. 

Dean cleared his throat. Probably wondering if they were in the same field, he asked, "What is it you do for a living, there, Mikey?" I just barely suppressed a snort at Dean's repeated use of the nickname and the obvious annoyance it was causing. 

Michael's predatory grin was back as he pulled his shirt down, tucking it neatly into his pants. " _Dan_ , was it?"

"Dean."

"Well, _Dean-O_ ," Michael said with a smirk, "I'm a plastic surgeon."

 _Of course he is_ , I thought, and immediately felt bad for being judgemental.

Dean seemed to be having similar thoughts, though. " _Diet and exercise my ass,_ " he mumbled, too softly for anyone else to hear, and I once again had to suppress a snort of laughter.

Anna was intrigued. "Ooh, that's gotta pay well, huh?"

Michael winked at her. "How do you think I got that car?" 

This time, Dean's eye roll was painfully obvious. Either Michael didn't notice or he was resolutely ignoring that corner of the table. He turned to me on his stool, laying a firm hand on my bicep. I tried not to squirm under the touch. 

"So, _Cas_ ," he said, giving my arm a little squeeze. "My mom told me all about your writing career. Congratulations!" 

"Oh, thank you," I said, feeling a hot blush creep over my cheeks. No doubt my mother had bragged to high heaven any chance she got. I just hoped she hadn't embellished too much. 

"She sent me the _Lighthouse_ series and I read it all in one week," he said. "I am _so_ impressed."

I was quick to wave him off. "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" Michael scoffed, slapping me playfully on the shoulder. "You don't get to be on the _New York Times_ Bestseller list with _nothing_." 

"Wait, what?" Dean asked, looking back and forth between the two of us.

"Babe," Anna swivelled in her seat to face Dean."Would you get me another drink?"

Dean hesitated, torn. "Um, yeah. Sure. What do you want?"

"Long Island iced tea?" she said, giving him her best puppy eyes.

Michael held up a couple of fingers. "Make that two!"

I'd never witnessed a better demonstration of the phrase _if looks could kill_ than the glare Dean shot Michael at that moment.

"Just messin' with you, Dean-O!" Michael said. 

Dean stalked off toward the bar. When he was out of earshot, Michael whistled. " _Whew_ , he's a wild one, huh?"

Anna laughed. “He is. I kinda like it, though.”

“I get it,” Michael said with a wink.

"So, how long have you been gay?" Anna asked. I knew what she meant, but the question was so poorly worded that I felt embarrassed by proxy.

Michael once again seemed unperturbed by her lack of tact. "I came out after high school. But I'm not gay—I'm bi."

Anna seemed a little too interested in the development. I could only marvel at the improbability of there being two bisexual men in the same place at the same time. It was like seeing a unicorn. Of course, I couldn't be sure about Dean's sexuality, but I was fairly certain that he fit the bill.

Michael and Anna fell into a playful and frankly flirtatious banter about their lives—how Anna's college experience had gone and what she was doing now. I zoned out, letting my eyes wander until they fell on Dean at the bar, his back turned to us. I let myself admire his strong, broad shoulders, the dip in his spine, the way his jeans hugged his body just right. It had been so long since I’d gone out drinking, and the strongest thing that I imbibed these days was the occasional glass of wine. The alcohol was definitely starting to do its job. 

Dean turned partway to look back at our table while he waited. He caught my eye, flicking his gaze back and forth between Anna and Michael and me and twitching his head back, once—a c’mere gesture. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I knocked back the rest of my drink and took the empty glass with me, sliding into place next to him at the bar.

“Another of these, please,” I told the bartender.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a writer?” Dean sounded almost hurt.

I shifted a little, toying with the rim of my empty glass. “I did.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, you told me you wrote an advice column, but books? _Novels_?”

“It’s nothing,” I said again. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted to share that part of myself with Dean, I just didn’t like to boast. Yes, I’d been on the _New York Times_ Bestseller list for a few works of fiction, but I considered my weekly _Fix My Family_ column just as important, and was frequently more proud of it than I was any of my novels.

“It’s not _nothing_ , Cas,” Dean insisted. “I want to read them. You have ‘em with you?”

It was my turn to scoff. “No, but I imagine my parents have multiple copies lying around somewhere.”

Dean smirked. “Leave it to you to keep talking all proper even when you’re three sheets to the wind.”

The bartender had dropped off our drinks by then, so I took a large sip just to prove a point. “I am nowhere near drunk yet, thank you.”

Dean smiled into his beer, and we shared another one of those lingering stares. Maybe it was the alcohol, but Dean’s gaze did something to me. It was electric and heady, more intoxicating than the whiskey in my glass. One of us averted our eyes first, but I couldn’t say who. Soon we were both staring into the bar top.

“So, uh,” Dean said, after a moment of silence, “that _Michael_ seems like a real winner.”

He was right to be facetious, of course. Michael was arrogant, and immature, and unapologetically pretentious—all qualities that I generally despised in a potential partner. And, obviously, I couldn’t see a future with him. I couldn’t see past the evening with him, to be honest. But he was _here_ and he was _available_. I said as much to Dean, punctuating that last bit with a meaningful raise of my eyebrows.

I didn’t wait for his response before I walked away, headed back to the table with drink in hand. A song had come on that reminded me of the funk songs from my childhood, all garish horns, catchy beat, and a hook that I knew would be stuck in my head for days. I set my drink down on the table with a loud thunk, catching Michael and Anna by surprise. They jumped back a little in their seats. 

“Let’s dance,” I said, pulling Michael to his feet. I led him by his hand to the dance floor and didn’t look back.

Michael’s eyes were dark and wolfish in the dim light of the dance floor. He pulled me close, slotting the front of his body fully against mine and setting up a rhythmic swaying of our hips in time to the beat.

I let my hands wander, telling myself that it was fine, that I could have this for a little while, that I shouldn't feel guilty for appreciating my own date's physique. He wasn't my normal type—thin and defined, when I generally prefered a bit of a thicker build—but I could still appreciate the hard lines of muscle, the strong feeling of his back, the curve of his spine. From this close, with my face buried in his neck, he could have been anyone.

We danced for some time, eventually joined on the floor by Dean and Anna. Though Dean and I were awkward and uncoordinated, clearly nowhere near as good as Anna and Michael, we danced with as much enthusiasm as they did, though perhaps for different reasons. I danced to escape, to pretend for a little while that I was this person—this carefree, easy-going man, out for a date on a Saturday night. I suspected that Dean danced to compete with Michael for attention, though whose he sought was a question I didn’t feel like answering.

I lost track of time, taking breaks to sit and drink and watch, sometimes being pulled back out onto the floor by Michael or Anna or both. Dean eventually sat at the table, nursing a beer in contemplation. I kept catching his eye, knowing he’d be looking right at me. A voice inside my head was screaming at me that he was Anna’s boyfriend, that it was wrong to act this way, that it was selfish and immature and petty. But under the haze of alcohol, keyed-up by the physical sensations I hadn’t felt in almost three years, I couldn’t help myself.

A little while later, when Dean said it was getting late and that we should probably head home, I told him to go ahead and take Anna. That Michael could get me home. I told them not to wait up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying so far. Let me know what you think! I'm also over on [tumblr](http://%20glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and twitter @glassclosetcas.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_“It's hard to see the forest for the trees, dear reader. Sometimes we get so bogged down in the seeming immensity of a crisis that we forget about everything else. Sometimes it's best to try to look at a situation from an outsider's point of view. Take a step back and judge things based on only the facts. If it's too difficult to separate your emotions, ask someone for advice. And if an outside perspective is offered outright, don't take it for granted. Use it to your advantage.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

For the first time in probably twenty years, I woke with a hangover. The light through the one tiny window drove dull knives through my skull. I groaned and turned over, burying my face in the pillow, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep through the rhythmic pounding at the base of my skull and the laughter and voices filtering in from outside. I cracked an eye open, peering through the space between the drapes. The light was bright and clear, the sun already risen high above the trees. It had to be close to lunchtime already. 

There was a glass of water on a table next to my cot. Someone had left it and two pills—presumably aspirin—on a little antique silver tray. My mother, if I had to guess, although I wouldn’t put it past Emma, either. I sat up slowly and swallowed the pills, chasing them with the whole glass of water. It was room-temperature. I wondered how long I’d been asleep.

Thoughts of last night began filtering back, dragging slowly across my skull like the dull clawing of my headache. I had agreed to stay out later with Michael because I was feeling bitter, not because I really wanted more time with him. I was tired and ready to leave well before Dean had suggested we all go home, and yet I’d said I would stay just for the flash of hurt that I knew would cross Dean’s face. I got the intended reaction, but not the satisfaction that I thought would come with it.

After Dean and Anna left, I realized I didn’t want to be there. We left the bar, Michael pulling the car to a stop down the road from the house at a beach access point. In the pale moonlight, the waves of the bay softly crashing before us, Michael tried to kiss me. I just held his face for a moment. “You’re beautiful, Michael,” I said, well past having a verbal filter, “but you’re kind of a dick, too.”

That had been the end of that. I walked home alone in the middle of the night, trying desperately not to think about anything the whole way there.

After I’d changed out of last night’s clothes and brushed my teeth, pausing just long enough at the mirror to check to make sure I looked presentable, I poured myself a mug of coffee and headed out into the sunshine. The September air was crisp and nippy. I squinted and held the mug in both hands as I sipped.

Everyone was out on the back lawn playing touch football. Even my youngest nieces were trying to get in on the fun, little legs carrying them as fast as they could go as they herded after the group. In the chaos, it was hard to tell who was on which team, but I supposed it didn’t really matter. They wouldn’t be keeping score.

Lea saw me first. “Dad, come on!” she shouted, waving me over.

I held a hand up in a sort of wave, smiling and shaking my head.

“Come on, Dad!” Claire yelled, currently pinning her cousin’s arms behind his back.

I shook my head again. “No, I’m okay.”

Dean made what I supposed was a touchdown, if his silly victory dance was anything to go by. Anna cheered and gave him a kiss. “Come on, Cas,” she said after they’d parted, a little breathless. “Gabe’s team is one short.”

“Yeah, big bro, we need you,” Gabe said, doubled over with his hands on his knees.

“Or are you too sore today?” Luke asked. 

Amelia smacked him on the side of the head. “ _Children_ ,” she hissed.

I blanched, catching Dean’s eye. He looked… _upset_. I wanted to wipe the look off of his face, wanted so badly to be the reason he smiled again, rather than the reason he looked so miserable. Against my better judgement and in clear disregard of my still pounding head, I cleared my throat. “No, _Luke_ , I’m fine, thank you. Whose team am I on?”

I’d never been good at sports—always preferring leisure activities, like reading or writing—but I wasn’t in horrible shape. I went running most afternoons while the girls were in school, and I’d always been a pretty healthy person in general. Even so, team sports were clearly not my forté. I’d never been able to follow football and was a little shaky on the rules. In an attempt to stay out of everyone’s way, I mostly skirted the outside of the group, running along to appear as if I were doing something.

“Cas!” Gabe called, trying to warn me that the ball was coming my way. I put up my hands to block my face and the ball bounced off, falling to the ground. A moment later I realized my mistake and looked around for it, but Dean had come out of nowhere and was scrambling for it. Knowing that it was probably against the rules, I reached out and pulled on the back of his shirt, stalling his progress. He whipped his head around and glared at me. I shrugged at him and went sprinting after the ball.

Greg had snatched it up, though, and was already on his way to the opposing team’s goal. Dean went running after him, but not before giving me a playful shove with his shoulder as he charged past me.

It continued like that for the rest of the game, both of us going out of our way to block the other or give one another a good shoulder check. We would lock eyes at the beginning of each play, his competitiveness making his beautiful green eyes fierce and animalistic. When Mom called out that we should stop and get ready for lunch, grumbles and groans broke out. Begrudgingly, Mom, the quarterback for the other team, set up again, facing off against Dad. Behind my father, I crouched down, ready to run. Dean locked eyes with me over my mother’s shoulder, giving me the _I’m-watching-you_ finger gesture. Gabe shouted some nonsense ending in “hike!” and we were off.

Mom immediately threw the ball off to the side, shouting for Hannah to catch it. Hannah fumbled the ball, scrambling to get it back in possession. Emma ran by and kicked it a bit out of her reach, just enough so that one of the littlest girls could pick it up. Lucy scooped it up carefully into her arms and sat down on the ground with it. Gameplay was paused for a few minutes while Hannah negotiated with her daughter for the ball, but soon it was back in play. Anna picked it up and ran with it, but Luke was hot on her tail. Just as he was about to pounce, she called out “Dean!”

Dean caught the ball easily in mid-stride and powered down the yard, dodging Claire and Alfie as he went. Dean was a personal trainer, fit and active, but he was also quite large and muscular. Not built for speed. I, however, was slimmer and faster and much more used to running. I gained on him easily and tackled him from behind, using my momentum to throw him off balance. We both lost our equilibrium and fell heavily to the ground. The ball went bouncing off to our left and someone must have caught it up and ran with it, because everyone was suddenly elsewhere. 

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, my head protesting every move. Dean turned under me so that he was on his back. We lay there, panting, aligned knees to chests. I could feel the softness over the muscles in his stomach, could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. He smelled just the same as the day before, but a little more intense with his perspiration. Despite my lingering nausea, it didn’t turn my stomach. Neither of us made a move to disentangle.

“It ain’t _tackle_ football, Cas,” Dean joked, his eyes soft.

“I didn’t sleep with Michael,” I said. 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. We stared at each other for another beat, breaths evening out.

“Dad, what the hell,” I heard from somewhere above us. Claire had come over and was standing a few feet away, looking at me with confusion written on her face. I swallowed and pushed back onto my knees, coming awkwardly to my feet. Dean let me pull him off the ground by the hand. We shared another meaningful look, briefly, as Dean brushed off his pants. He left me standing there to turn away, following Claire and the rest of my family into the house. 

Emma came around me, then, placing herself between me and the waterfront. She had her arms crossed. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she said, voice low, “but you need to stop. You’re upsetting Claire, you’re obviously upsetting Aunt Anna, and I’m pretty weirded out, too.”

She stalked away before I had a chance to respond. I stayed rooted to the spot, trying to get my heartbeat under control. She’d noticed that something was off between me and Dean. I knew she’d noticed. She’d been giving me funny looks all weekend. The thing was, no matter _what I thought I was doing_ , Dean was doing it right back.

Lunch was simple—a build-your-own sandwich style buffet line laid out on the kitchen island, complete with three different kinds of bread, a whole deli counter’s worth of cold cuts and cheeses, peanut butter, jelly and honey, fresh vegetables, and a healthy assortment of condiments. I made a plate for myself with five-grain bread and shuffled sideways down the line behind Greg. I’d purposely held off until the end, hoping I could avoid going down the line with Dean. Dean had waited until the end, too.

We dressed our sandwiches across the table from one another, occasionally pausing to hand off a fork or pass a pair of tongs. I kept my eyes down, feeling my way around the condiments as I stole glances at Dean's hands as he worked. He took two different kinds of cheeses, then put both mustard and ketchup on his bread. I laughed softly when he reached for the relish. His hand stilled on the jar, but I didn't look up. I finished my turkey sandwich off with some deli mustard and pulled two paper towels off of the holder.

As I suspected, Lea was already partially covered in peanut butter and honey, her fingers glistening and sticky. I dropped off my plate and napkin, turning back around to reach her at the kids' table. I stooped over her head, leaning upside-down to wipe her face. "You're filthy already, little bee," I said.

She laughed and held out her hands to be wiped. "Dad, can I show you what I made?"

I'd completely forgotten. "Oh, darn," I said. I crouched down to her level, sticky napkin balled into my fist. "I'm sorry I’ve been so busy, baby. Remind me after lunch, okay?"

She nodded and smiled. I kissed her forehead and went to retrieve my lunch. Mercifully, I had snagged a seat at the very end of the long table. Unfortunately, though, this put me right across from Luke, and right next to Gabe.

"Soooo," Gabe drawled. I cringed into my first bite of turkey, knowing what was coming.

"How was your daaate," Luke sing-songed.

I closed my eyes and sighed as the table fell quiet, waiting for my reply.

“In all honesty?” I began, locking eyes with my mother at the far end of the table, "It was awful. Mom, I know you're friends with Mrs. D'Angelo, and I'm sorry, but her son is a pretentious jackass. Pardon my language," I added, but none of the kids seemed perturbed. "Back me up, Anna."

Anna frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about. I thought he was amazing."

"Amazing?" Dean scoffed, though he immediately looked as if he regretted speaking. He took a huge bite of his overly-dressed sandwich, butting out of the conversation.

"Yes," Anna went on, setting her own sandwich down. "He's only 33 years old, owns a _very_ successful practice, he's a _doctor_ —"

"He's not a doctor," I interrupted.

Anna rolled her eyes. "So he does boobs and faces. He still cuts people open, right? He's a surgeon."

“Oh shit,” Gabe said. “Mikey’s a plastic surgeon? Damn, no wonder he’s so hot now.”

Luke laughed, Anna rolled her eyes again, and my mother shrugged, seemingly satisfied with my answer. Just as I took another bite of my sandwich, Hannah spoke. "Cas, if he was so awful, why'd you stay out with him?"

 _Shit_. So everyone knew. I had been hoping that since Dean and Anna had gotten home so late, no one would have been awake to notice that I wasn't with them. The table had gone quiet again. I realized Dean was trying very hard to keep his eyes down on his plate, though his sandwich was long gone. I cleared my throat, heart kicking up an uncertain rhythm in my chest.

“Well—”

Luckily, at that moment there was a knock at the door.

\--

“How did you get here?” I asked. “Do your parents know where you are? Should I call them? Give me your mother’s phone number.”

“Dad!” Claire huffed. “Stop!”

Marcos, Claire’s “friend,” was standing on the doorstep of my parent’s house, two hundred miles from home. I hadn’t let him inside.

To his credit, he looked confident in the face of my hostility. “Sir, I apologize for showing up without your knowledge. Claire and I talked about this—” here he cast her a quick, apologetic look, “—and I thought it would be alright to come. My parents know where I am. My Dad drove me to the bus station.”

I looked back and forth between him and Claire, who had ducked under my arm and was currently standing next to Marcos, hand entwined with his.

“Do you have enough money for the bus fare home?” I asked.

He smiled. “Yes, sir. Saved up for weeks.”

“Excellent,” I said, and grabbed my car keys from the hook next to the door. “I’ll drive you to the station.”

“NO!” Claire shouted. She pulled Marcos’ arm into her chest, wrapping her arms around it protectively. I strode past them and unlocked the car.

“Dad! He just got here! He’s been on a bus literally all day! Don’t be an asshole!”

I paused at the door to the car and shut my eyes. “Claire Amelia, watch your language.”

“No!” she shouted again. “No, I won’t! I’m sick of this shit! I’m supposed to listen to you about relationships when you can’t even go on a date without fucking it up?”

I shut my eyes and breathed in and out, counted to three. “You’re grounded.”

“What?” Claire shouted, eyes red-rimmed and wet with unshed tears. “Why?”

“You lied to me.”

Marcos gave her a sideways look, but said nothing.

“So I lied, obviously!” Claire said. “You can’t handle the truth!”

I shook my head. “Yeah? Well maybe you should try me next time. You’re grounded.” I pointed to the car. “Marcos, get in.”

Claire stepped in between us and held out her hands, pleading. “No, please, Dad, please, I love him!”

“Claire—”

She cut me off, openly sobbing now. “I’ve only known him for three weeks, but I knew I was in love with him after three days!”

Emma and Lea had moved to Claire’s side, the three of them holding each other for support. Everyone else was out on the porch or still inside, peeking out through the windows or the open front door. Dean was there in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. I looked down again. “You _can’t_ fall in love in three days.”

“Sir—” Marcos began, but I cut him off, gesturing to the car.

“Get in the car, Marcos.”

“Dad!”

“No, Claire!” I shouted. The frustration was getting the best of me. “You don’t make the rules. You didn’t talk to me about this, you invited a near-stranger into this house, and frankly, I’m disappointed in how you’re behaving. So Marcos is going to come with me, and I’ll be nice enough to pay his way back to New Jersey, but he can’t stay. I’m sorry, but he can’t.”

“I’ll drive him,” my father called. He wound his way down the porch steps and came to stand behind my three girls, stroking down Claire’s hair with a soft hand. Her eyes had welled up with unshed tears. “Let me drive him, Cas.”

I was shaking a little. I’m sure everyone could see it—the way I was slowly coming unhinged. I nodded. Dad came over to me and took the keys, giving me a pat on the back.

Marcos took Claire’s face in his hand and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said. Claire grabbed him by the hand and hauled him closer, going in for a real kiss. I averted my eyes.

He and Claire both walked to the car. Claire had a handful of his shirt hem in her fist. He opened the passenger door and set his bag in the footwell. “I love you,” he said.

When she said it back, the tears began to fall. Marcos closed the door and rolled the window down. They clasped hands through the opening, repeating their _I-love-you_ s in a whisper. My father started to pull the car away, slowly enough that they could release their hands. When they’d finally broken apart, he accelerated, pulling the car down the driveway and toward the road.

Claire turned, briefly, to shout at me. “You are a _murderer of love_!” 

She started running after the car. “I love you, Marcos!” she cried. “Text me! I love you so much!” She was fully sobbing now, her breaths coming erratically. At the end of the driveway, she collapsed in a heap, and Emma and Lea ran to her side. The three of them sat there in a huddle, rocking back and forth. I longed to go to them, to wrap them in my arms and take the pain away. It killed me knowing that I was the one that caused it in the first place. I stayed put, watching as the yellowing leaves of the maple trees fell all around them like snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come commiserate with me on [tumblr](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and twitter (@glassclosetcas).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't do well with second-hand embarrassment... Welp. I'm sorry for this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter Six

_“Listen to your kids, dear reader. They have a lot to say. They may not always be right, but listen and advise. Never shut them down outright. They’ll never learn what’s best if you don’t give them the tools to find out why.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

I was in the laundry room, my face in my hands as I lay back on the springy cot. The unforgiving coils were doing a number on my lower back, especially laying flat as I was. In a sick way, I felt that my discomfort was a sort of penance. 

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," I said through my fingers. The door opened a crack and my father poked his head in.

"Hey, Cas."

I sighed—a slow, shaky thing—and sat up. "Hey."

"I took the kid to a motel. Paid for a night, gave him enough money for the bus ride home tomorrow. He'll be fine."

My father's generosity didn't surprise me. I probably would have done the same thing, once I'd had a few minutes in the car to clear my head. "Thank you," I said.

Dad patted the doorframe and hesitated. "He could have stayed here, but I see why you sent him away." He came inside and closed the door softly behind him. 

"I don't know what I'm going to do with her," I admitted. It wasn't something I liked to think about, that Claire was becoming too much for me to handle on my own. I was supposed to have all the answers. In this instance, though, I knew Daniel's input and support would have been invaluable.

"She's a handful," my father agreed. "But you've gotta admit, she knows what she wants, and she'll do anything to get it. Not a terrible quality in a girl her age, if it's harnessed right."

He had a point. As two men raising daughters without a female parent, we'd always gone out of our way to make sure the girls felt empowered and encouraged as women, teaching them to be self-sufficient and strong while also showing them that it was okay to be vulnerable, to feel emotional, that having feelings wasn't something to be ashamed of. 

It felt like a failure of sorts that Claire had grown up to embody all of the characteristics we'd taught her to value, but I couldn't appreciate them for what they were. Still, she was getting a bit out of control, and sometimes I just didn’t know the right thing to do.

After Dad patted me on the shoulder and left me alone, I lay there on my back with my eyes clenched tight, knowing that somehow the line of communication between myself and my daughter had been damaged. I had to be the one to repair it. I knew she wouldn’t want to talk to me, but maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.

I'd almost drifted off to sleep when there was a knock on the door.

"Yeah?"

"It's Anna."

I sat up, telling her she could come in. She shut the door behind her and came to sit at the foot of the cot. Though Anna and I were extremely close, the casual proximity felt awkward after the last few days of discordance between the two of us. I tried to put it all out of my mind, remembering that this was my little sister—that no matter what, we'd always have that familial bond.

Her long red hair was pulled up into a messy bun at the top of her head, and she was wearing leggings and an oversized sweater. She looked better—less upset with me, anyway—and I remembered I'd meant to apologize for my behavior and hadn't. 

"Hey," I began. "Everything okay?"

She smiled a bit in reassurance. "Yeah, everything's fine. Are you okay? You've seemed a little... off."

That was the understatement of the decade. I almost laughed. “Yes,” I lied. “I’m fine. It’s just getting… harder. With the girls.”

Anna reached out and rested her hand on my shin, nodding in understanding. “I get it. Two teenage girls. It’s a lot to handle.”

I hoped that my eyes looked normal, that was my face wasn’t still swollen and red from crying. “What’s up?” I asked, effectively changing the subject. 

Anna tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, looking sheepish. “So I know you don’t really like to play music anymore,” she began, and my eyes widened. That was an unexpected segue. “But, um… I’d really like to sing a song tonight. For Dean.”

I shut my eyes and breathed out. _Tonight_. I’d been so preoccupied that I’d forgotten about the talent show. It was a yearly Shurley family tradition—one that I had been exempt from for three years. I could guess where Anna was going with this, and I really, _really_ didn’t like it.

“Okay,” I said, carefully leaving the question open for her to answer. 

“Would you mind playing accompaniment for me?” she asked, turning her doe eyes on me full-force. “It’ll sound so much better with music.”

I hadn’t played the guitar since Daniel's death. Not really. I’d picked up my old acoustic and sat in on my lap, brushed my hands lightly over the metal of the strings, feeling the faint buzzing of their vibrations, too low to hear. I’d strummed a G chord, once—the beginning of the song we’d walked down the aisle to, arm in arm. Then I’d set the instrument back in its case and put it away. That was two years ago.

Anna looked so hopeful, though, like doing this for Dean would make up for all of the awkwardness over the past couple of days. She wasn’t a great singer, but I knew the gesture would be meaningful enough that Dean would have to appreciate it. I cleared my throat. “What song?”

“I was thinking of the song, ‘Go Your Own Way’?” she said with a smile.

I frowned. “Like,” I paused, singing a bit, “ _you can go your own way_?”

She nodded. “Good, you know it already.”

I narrowed my eyes, running through the lyrics in my head. “Anna, are you sure you want to sing _that_ song?” 

“It’s a love song, right?”

I made a noncommittal gesture. “I suppose so.”

“So, yes. I think it’ll be pretty. Will you play it for me?” she asked.

I searched her face for any sense that she understood the irony of the song choice, but finding only earnest pleading and willful ignorance, I sighed. “Okay.”

Anna beamed at me and we hugged, and though I once again felt like I was about to be sick, I returned her smile and promised to be ready for this evening.

When she left, I laughed a little into the empty space of the laundry room, wondering how the situation could possibly get any more ludicrous.

My mother directed me to the old acoustic Martin she kept in a case in the attic. It hadn’t been played in years, and the strings were loose, but it looked as if it would tune up just fine. I latched the case and handed it down to her through the doorway in the floor and carefully climbed down, folding the ladder back into the ceiling.

“Castiel,” Mom began. She handed the case to me with both hands, as if it were a precious relic. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I narrowed my eyes at her, unsure of the nature of her question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She just looked at me for a moment, eyebrows arched incredulously, calling me back to the rare times in my youth when I’d disobeyed her and feigned ignorance when confronted about it. I got the impression that she wasn’t asking simply because I hadn’t played the guitar in years, and wondered just how much she’d picked up on in the past two days.

“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s fine.”

Her eyes searched mine for only a moment more. She nodded and turned, leaving me alone in the back hallway. I wished there were anything that I could say to her that wouldn’t sound selfish and immature, but since I couldn’t think of anything, it seemed best not to say anything at all.

\--

Apart from my mother and Anna—and, well, Dean—everyone seemed to be keeping their distance from me, though I couldn’t tell if it was because no one wanted to talk to me after my seemingly unfounded outburst, or because everyone thought I might want the space. Either way, it was clear that my family was giving me a wide berth—my daughters, widest of all. Claire hadn’t so much as looked at me since this morning.

I pulled up a Google search of guitar tabs and sat on the porch swing, tuning the guitar by ear. The sun was setting behind the house, the sky over the water quickly turning from peach to dusky purple in the waning light. My girls and Amelia were out on the lawn, practicing a heavily-choreographed dance routine that would put last year’s to shame, by the looks of it.

The talent show was never won or lost, and was rarely full of much talent—mostly, the acts were performed for entertainment value or just for the laugh. It was always a highly enjoyable evening, and became even more so as the youngest children grew old enough to engage and participate. I was looking forward to whatever Hannah had planned for Lucy and Li-an—it would be adorable, if the matching costumes were any indication.

After getting the guitar in tune, I set to work practicing the chords. I was familiar with the song, of course, so once I’d memorized the progression I was free to improvise a bit. I started out strumming a basic rhythm and eventually added some embellishments, humming along as I went. 

“Sounds great!” Anna said, flopping down onto the swing next to me.

I smiled. It had been a long time since I’d played anything, and the realization that the skill hadn’t left me was satisfying, if not a little surprising. Apparently, Anna was equally pleased. “Would you like to practice?” I asked, giving the guitar a little strum on a F-chord.

“Nah, I got this,” she said. She pulled her legs up underneath her, leaning her head against my shoulder. It was like the past two days hadn’t happened, like she hadn’t noticed my odd behavior toward her relationship, like I hadn’t basically outright accused them of moving too fast and expecting too much.

This whole situation was wrong on so many levels, not the least of which Anna’s apparent disregard or ignorance of the sense that anything was off. “Why did you choose this song?” I asked, holding my breath.

“It was in this movie Dean and I watched together,” she said. “It was so pretty, I just had to download it.”

I laughed. “What movie did you watch that had a Fleetwood Mac song on the soundtrack?”

Anna gave me that look I'd become so familiar with on Claire's face—the one that was equal parts incredulity and exasperation. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “It’s not Fleetwood Mac,” she said, working away at the touch screen. “It’s Lissie.”

An insistent bass rhythm came through her phone’s speakers, followed by a husky female voice. _‘Lovin’ you isn’t the right thing to do…_ ’ Admittedly, the cover was gorgeously done, but even so—Anna couldn’t seriously think that this woman was the originator of the song, could she?

“Anna, this is a cover of a Fleetwood Mac song,” I said evenly, watching her face.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I want to do this version. It’s probably prettier, anyway.”

I sighed and nodded, remembering with startling clarity that Anna was a product an entirely different generation than my own. I asked her to play the song again for me from the beginning, getting a feel for the slightly different tone. The irony was that this woman—Lissie’s—version was even more desperate and heartbroken than the original.

It was going to be an interesting night.

As if by magic, in the span of mere hours, the living room became dressed and ready for the talent show—couches and chairs pulled back and lined up for easy viewing, tables and other obstructions pushed to the perimeter of the room to make a clear space for the stage. The large bay windows that in daylight framed the expansive backyard had been covered by dramatic white curtains and lit all over by star-shaped fairy lights. My mother had gone all out this year.

After a simple dinner and enough time to don costumes or ready props, everyone converged on the living room and arranged themselves on seats or tables or pillows on the floor. I seated myself near the back of the group on a low table, resting the neck of the guitar against my thigh.

My mother was dressed in one of Dad’s suits with a polka dot bow tie, black eyeliner pencil marking two lines from the corners of her mouth down to her chin. She stood and moved to the front of the group, opening her arms wide. “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the 16th Annual Shurley family talent show!”

 

Cheers and applause broke out around me. I managed a smile.

“Grandpa and I will be going first,” she continued. My father stood and joined her, pulling his chair along. “Alfie, the lights, if you please?”

At the back wall near the kitchen, Alfie lowered the dimmer switch until the room was bathed in a subtle golden glow. He flipped on a bendable floor lamp with the shade turned upside down, pointing it at the stage. The makeshift spotlight was very effective.

Dad sat and pulled Mom onto his knee where she went very still. Everyone laughed as my mother became Dad’s ventriloquist dummy, complete with ridiculous squeaky voice and wooden movements. They performed a well-rehearsed Vaudeville routine to the delight of the entire family. They stood and bowed to applause and laughter, dragging the chair back out of the way to make room for the next act.

Emma, Claire, Lea and Amelia had created matching costumes with a set of unsightly floral curtains, probably pulled from a closet or storage hutch somewhere. Claire set up a miniature pair of speakers and plugged in her phone. They performed their complicated dance routine to a bass-heavy song that I recognized as one that Claire liked to sing along to in the car. Despite myself, I smiled ear to ear as I watched, Amelia and Claire taking the lead, Emma and Lea at their sides doing their best to keep up. 

The dance ended with Lea in the air, being held aloft by the other three as if she weighed nothing. Everyone sprang up out of their seats and cheered, and the girls beamed, faces red and shiny from the exertion. They set Lea back on her feet and bowed.

As time drifted by and more acts were performed, I became increasingly more nervous, fidgeting with the guitar, running my hands along the edges of the table, darting my eyes around the room and trying desperately to avoid glancing at Dean. But even when deeply engaged in laughing at Gabe’s antics or awwing at Lucy and Li-an’s little dance, I couldn’t help but sense Dean in my periphery, his presence drawing my awareness like a magnet. When the time finally came for Anna’s song, I was so tightly-wound I could barely move. I stood stiffly and breathed in deep, pulling an extra chair in from the kitchen to put by Anna’s side.

Anna was wearing a short black dress, her long red hair flowing loose and wavy around her shoulders. She cleared her throat. “This song is for Dean,” she said. Dean looked briefly surprised before raising his eyebrows in anticipation.

I checked the tuning on the guitar one last time. With a glance over her shoulder at me, Anna signalled her readiness with a nod. I started strumming an F-chord, slower than I’d normally play it. Listening to the sound and singing the first few words in my head, I realized too late that this key would probably be too low for Anna’s soprano. She cleared her throat, seeming to reach the same conclusion. I raised my eyebrows at her in question, but she began to sing anyway.

“ _Loving you isn’t the right thing to do_ ,” she began. It was more of a croak on the first few words, the notes clearly below her range.

I looked around the room and noticed that nearly every adult in the room wore similar expressions of confusion as they collectively grasped the song choice. Dean in particular seemed unsettled, his beautiful face set in a frown. He had realized what Anna hadn’t—she was unknowingly singing him an ultimatum.

Anna went on in ignorance, smiling in embarrassment as she struggled to stay on pitch. When people started cringing in sympathy, I picked up on the first chorus and began to sing along, trying to guide Anna to the right notes. She gave me a grateful smile as we reached the second verse.

" _Tell me why_ ," she began, and paused.

I strummed the opening chord again and sang, " _everything's turned around_."

She nodded and opened her mouth. I kept strumming the same chord for a moment, waiting for her to remember the words. She looked back at me with eyebrows raised, so I sang, " _packin' up_ ," but she couldn't seem to remember the rest. " _Shackin' up's all you wanna do_ ," I continued. 

She joined me on the familiar " _if I could, baby, I'd give you my world,_ " but floundered again at the next line, looking defeated. I closed my eyes and went on. " _Open up, everything's waiting for you_."

" _You can go your own way_ ," I sang, having to reach up into my falsetto to hit the higher notes. It had been a long time since I'd sung anything, and my normally gravelly voice was even more raspy with disuse. Still, I sang on. " _You can call it another lonely day_." 

I realized belatedly that I was singing alone, so I ramped up the guitar, strumming forcefully. Opening my eyes, I fixed my gaze on Dean. " _You can go your own way_ ," I sang to him. " _You can call it another lonely day_." I took a page from Lissie's book, improvising a bit and drawing out the end of the song as I slowed my pace to about half speed, strumming one final chord. " _You can go your own way_."

Dean looked dumbstruck, his eyes locked on mine. For a moment, it was just the two of us in the room, the lingering hum of the guitar the only sound above the heartbeat in my ears. Dean's expression was unreadable, but I held firm, communicating with silence what I couldn't say in words. _How can I when you won't take it from me?_

I was drawn sharply back to reality when Gabe and Luke began an awkward and uncertain slow clap. Dean looked down and away as a few more hands joined in, and I realized how long we must have been staring at one another. Anna was silent and still beside me.

I closed my eyes for a beat, exhaling slowly. I didn't look at Anna or my daughters, and certainly not at Dean as I stood and set the guitar against the wall, exiting the room to a suddenly deafening silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Lissie song is real, and it's actually a beautiful cover. You can listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/OltcXMV-9Vk).
> 
> Come say hey on [tumblr](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and twitter (@glassclosetcas). No really. Come tell me what you think.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your hats.

Chapter Seven

_“Love makes us do crazy things.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

I woke because of the silence—a slow and uncomfortable clapping had haunted my dreams, I was fairly certain—and the usual cacophony of sound was conspicuous in its absence. Had I heard shuffling in the kitchen, steady footfalls above my head, or even snoring from anywhere in the rooms around me, I would have stayed in bed and hid from my family until someone dragged me out. But I checked the time on my phone—8:39—and decided that even for the early hour, the lack of noise was suspicious. Sighing, I swung my feet out of bed and crept to the door. I heard nothing from beyond the room.

The laundry room was just behind the kitchen, so the opening of the door revealed the entirety of the kitchen and a good portion of the living room, as well as a good view of the side porch and driveway. At every window in view, my family members were crowded together, hunched down or leaning sideways for maximum viewing ability. Everyone was focused on the side porch and the driveway beyond, where Dean’s long black car was pulled up right in front of the house. Dean was standing in between the car and the open driver’s side door, arms crossed on the roof. Anna’s back was turned to the house, though it looked as if she were still dressed in the clothes she’d gone to sleep in. Her hair was hastily pulled back in a messy ponytail.

Silently, I crept forward and took a spot at one of the living room windows, having to lean in over Luke’s back to stay in view. From there, I could just barely make out the voices coming from outside. Anna was in hysterics. Dean’s face was pained and drawn.

“Don’t go! I told you I wasn’t a good singer!” Anna cried, ending on a strangled laugh and a hiccup.

Dean frowned. “It’s not that. I just… have to go.”

He started to crouch down into his seat, but Anna rushed forward, pulling the passenger side door open. She leaned into the car. Dean straightened and regarded her over the roof again.

“Please stay,” Anna said.

Dean just frowned again and shook his head. “You’re a really great girl, Anna,” he said. “Tell your family thanks.” 

He got into the car and shut the door with a loud _thunk_. Anna leaned into the passenger side and said something to him, too low for us to hear. She backed up and closed the door with more force than was necessary, then turned on her heel and marched up the steps to the tune of Dean’s engine growling to life.

All at once, everyone scurried away from the windows and doors, busying themselves with turning the TV on or pouring themselves coffee, starting up half-forgotten conversations and laughing at nothing in particular. I stood by helplessly as Anna came inside and slammed the door behind her.

“You can all stop pretending like you weren’t watching that,” she said to the room at large, dropping down into a seat at the kitchen island. Immediately, she was swarmed by the women in the room, Claire and Emma first to rush to her side, giving her lingering hugs. My mother and Hannah and my sisters-in-law crowded around, all talking at once.

“What happened?”

“Are you okay?”

“What did he say?”

“I never liked him anyway, he was like too pretty? You know?”

I excused myself from the room, overcome by an inexplicable mixture of guilt, regret, and triumph.

\--

In the laundry room, I sat on my cot and busied myself with the New York Times crossword puzzle, thankful that everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with consoling Anna to come and investigate my disappearance. If anyone had connected my impromptu serenade last night with Dean’s hasty departure this morning, no one had said anything. I wanted to believe there was no connection, but I couldn’t convince myself that that was true.

An hour or so later when I was just about to give the crossword up as a lost cause, my phone started vibrating on the table next to the cot. Frowning, I picked it up and tried to make sense of the unfamiliar number. It had an area code I didn’t recognize. 

“Castiel Shurley,” I answered.

“Cas.”

It was Dean.

“Where are you?” I asked, lowering my voice to a whisper. “How far did you get?”

“Not far,” Dean said. I was already stepping into a pair of jeans, pulling my shoes on. “Only got to town before I stopped. Been sittin’ in the parking lot at some bowling alley.”

I nodded into the phone, searching for my car keys. They were by the front door. I paused before leaving the room. “Stay there. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Opening the door slowly and peeking through the crack, I determined that the best course of action would be to casually stroll through the kitchen, grab my keys and put them in my pocket as nonchalantly as possible, limiting eye contact with anyone I encountered. I was able to do this with little trouble as most of the women seemed to be congregated on the back porch. A glance through the kitchen windows assured me that my daughters were all occupied with some sort of group therapy by manicure/pedicure party. I made it all the way to the front door with keys in hand before anyone noticed my presence.

“Where you goin’, Cassie?” Gabriel asked, his eyes never leaving the television. He, Luke, and Greg were slumped on the couch and armchairs, watching a football game.

I hoped that it was interesting enough to keep Gabe’s somewhat undivided attention. “Uh, just need to run into town,” I said. “You guys need anything?”

I got a chorus of ‘no’s in response, so I nodded once and stepped outside, closing the door softly behind me. There was no one out at the side of the house. I started my car and backed it slowly down the driveway, making a careful U-turn and avoiding the sight line of anyone on the back porch. As soon as I hit the road, I floored the gas pedal, pointing the car into town.

Thick grey storm clouds sat low on the horizon, promising a downpour. I turned on my lights as I reached the outskirts of town and the first fat drops hit the windshield. Despite the adrenaline rushing through me, I forced myself to let off the gas a little just to be safe, thanking myself a minute later when I passed a police car parked on the side of the road. The same hard-faced officer was inside, holding up a radar gun to track my speed. I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror as I drove, but he didn’t follow me. The three remaining miles to the bowling alley passed by at a crawl as I kept up an even 45-mile-per-hour pace.

The deluge began as I pulled into the parking lot and aligned my car next to Dean’s—the only other car in the lot. I could just barely make out his shape in the driver’s seat. Securing my phone and wallet in the glove box and pocketing my keys, I plunged myself into the rain and hoped that Dean’s passenger door would be unlocked. It was.

I only spared a moment’s thought for the fact that I was now soaked through and dripping water all over the upholstery. Dean was there, two feet away, and looking at me like he couldn’t give two shits about the fate of the leather. He smiled and said, “Hey.”

I let out a long, shaky breath. “Hello, Dean.”

We sat in silence for a moment, me trying to catch my breath and calm my heart and knowing I wouldn’t be able to any time soon. Dean’s smile began to slip and he looked down.

“You know, I really did have good intentions,” he said to his lap.

I frowned. “You didn’t—”

“No, Cas,” Dean interrupted me. “You were right. Anna was too young for me. But…” he trailed off, looking up and out the front windshield as if he could see his mistakes written in the rain. “She would say these things sometimes… real deep shit, you know? I kept thinking, this has _got_ to be too good to be true. No way a girl this beautiful and funny and _this young_ is so fuckin’ deep, too.” 

He huffed a laugh, and I was suddenly hit with foreboding. Something was wrong. Dean reached down under the seat beneath me and pulled out a book. I recognized it immediately. My heart sank.

He opened to a dog-eared page near the middle and began to read my own words to me. A love poem that I’d written for Daniel.

He snapped the book shut and looked up at me, jaw clenched. “She told me she wrote that shit for a poetry class in college.”

I shut my eyes. Rubbed a hand over my face. It was disappointing, yes, but not surprising that Anna would do something like this. She had claimed my words as her own. I opened my eyes and glared down at the weathered copy of my first novel, _The Station in the Storm_ , as if had done me a personal disservice.

“All of her best lines were yours,” he said. 

Dean picked the book up again and examined the cover, turning it in his hands. “I was… pissed when we got home Saturday night. Couldn’t sleep. So I got up and found your parents’ bookshelf—that big one in the hall? I thought if I would find ‘em anywhere, that’s where they’d be. And lo and behold, all three of your books were right there. Picked this one up and started reading. Couldn’t stop for hours. This is seriously good, by the way,” he added as an aside, holding the book up to me. “I’m definitely gonna have to finish the series. Anyway. Eventually it all started sounding familiar. So I kept thinking, _have I read this before?_ How could I forget reading this? Then I got to the poetry, and… fuck. I’d know it anywhere. I couldn’t… all day yesterday, I was just trying to process this shit. I couldn’t even look at her the same after this.”

Feeling as if words were useless to help but trying to find the right ones anyway, I whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck, Cas,” he said. “You don’t get to be sorry. _I’m_ sorry. I should have known. I did know, damn it—I knew the day I met you.”

I stayed silent, watching a complicated series of emotions play across Dean’s face.

“I knew there was something about you,” he went on. “I just couldn’t get you out of my head, you know?”

He was still staring out the front window, speaking as if to himself, like he’d had this conversation over and over again in the privacy of his own thoughts. I was familiar with that. I nodded.

“And just, fuck. I thought maybe, _maybe_ it was just because you’re, you know, _hot_ , but no, I mean, Anna’s hot. This was different. It was just, I don’t know. I just had this feeling about you from that first day in the bookstore. Like, I’ve never felt,” he trailed off, waving a hand back and forth between us, “ _this_ before. And that goddamn terrified me.”

“Because I’m a man,” I guessed.

Dean stalled with his mouth halfway through forming a sound. He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Well, yeah, I guess that too, but no. I mean. I’ve never felt this before, _ever_. With _anyone_.”

My breath caught in my throat, but he went on unaware.

“But I just had to remind myself, ‘ _no, dude_ , you’re in a relationship.’ And then, ‘ _goddamnit_ , he’s your girlfriend’s brother, for Christ’s sake.’ And just, _fuck_ , it’s only been _three days_.”

I couldn’t help myself. A laugh escaped me against my will. Dean looked at me like I was crazy, but I couldn’t explain myself to him. _Maybe later_ , I thought, and forced myself to breathe.

“Dean,” I said, taking a moment to wipe the droplets of rain from my hair with the back of my sleeve. I turned fully in the seat to face him. “Would you like to go bowling with me?”

He cracked, a laugh bubbling up out of him seemingly against his will. He tilted his head back against the seat and ran his hands over his face, groaning. With the escape of the sound came all of the tension from the past few days, his shoulders easing and the hard set of his jaw relaxing once more into an easy smile. He turned his eyes on me, leaf-green and shining.

“Sure, Cas. I’d love to.”

\--

The bowling alley didn’t open until 11:00, so we waited fifteen minutes under the covered porch until a kindly-looking older woman unlocked the door and ushered us inside. Dean paid for a lane and rented two sets of bowling shoes—I was surprised to learn that though he was an inch or two taller, my feet were a size larger than Dean’s. We laughed at everything and nothing at all as I put our names into the computer. It made my heart swell just to see our names written together like that—Dean and Cas.

The woman flipped the party lights on and the overhead lights off, bathing the room in a purple glow. Disco balls shone their bright patterns over every lane with a soundtrack of 70’s hits to go along. Dean and I laughed and shouted our thanks up to her in the booth at the back of the room.

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” Dean said. He’d chosen a solid black 13-pound ball and was holding it up effortlessly with one hand.

I smiled. “I’d watch yourself. I’ve been known to bowl up to 75 points in a game.”

As I was hoping, Dean burst into laughter again. “Okay, new plan,” he said. “I’m gonna teach you everything I know.”

I had a tendency to walk slowly up to the line and use my arm as a sort of a pendulum, keeping my wrist straight and stiff while I lobbed the ball into forward motion down the lane. Dean insisted on watching my ‘technique,’ meaning he stood by and shook his head while I knocked down only one of the corner pins and followed it up with a gutter ball.

“I thought you might have been joking,” Dean said. “But nope. You really are terrible.”

I punched him playfully in the arm. “Okay, _Mister Expert_ ,” I said. “Let’s see your _technique_.”

Dean turned and picked up his ball, donning a very serious face as he lined up his shot. Then he winked at me. After taking three steps, he whipped his arm out and let the ball go. It glided effortlessly down the very center of the lane, knocking over all ten pins. Dean turned to me and made a gesture with his fingers like he was blowing smoke off of a gun.

I tried to maintain a serious face while I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the smile that came with it.

“Alright, your turn,” Dean said.

I picked up my ball and walked right up to the line. Dean stopped my arm as I pulled it back.

“Okay, there’s your first problem,” he said. “You don’t have enough momentum.”

He demonstrated his three-step technique again, showing how he used the momentum of his body to aid in the speed of his throwing arm. I asked him to show me again, just so I could admire the way his T-shirt clung to his waist when he twisted like that. He gave me a look like he knew exactly what I was thinking, smirking as he demonstrated again.

I mimicked his movements as best I could, taking three quick steps and throwing the ball down the lane. It veered wildly off course, nearly knocking itself out of the gutter and into the lane next to it.

Dean took my arm and held my wrist aloft, showing me how tense I’d been holding it. He wiggled my hand a little bit until he proclaimed that I was loose enough. Then, with a flourish, he showed me the ‘correct’ wrist movement to achieve maximum accuracy and speed. It reminded me of the wand movement from the first Harry Potter movie—I’d watched it a hundred times with Lea. _Wingardium Leviosa. Swish and flick_.

Dean handed the ball to me when it popped out of the machine. I let out a deep breath and took three quick steps. “ _Swish and flick_ ,” I whispered, willing my wrist to do just that. The ball rolled quickly down the lane, just slightly off center. Five pins tumbled down and several more moved a bit. I turned and raised my arms in victory. Dean gave me a double high five.

“Did you just say ‘swish and flick?’” he asked.

I laughed.

We alternated bowling and making complete fools of ourselves while dancing to the disco music, celebrating more and more enthusiastically any time Dean would make a strike, which was nearly every turn. By the time “ _Stayin’ Alive_ ” came on, we were dancing while we bowled, and it wasn’t doing me any favors. My score was an abysmal 53 points to Dean’s 179.

“Okay, focus!” Dean clapped, putting on his serious face. 

I picked up my ball in my right hand and saluted with my left.

“Remember what I taught you,” he went on. “Step step step, Wingardium Leviosa.”

I nearly dropped the ball, doubling over and laughing. 

“This is serious business, Cas!” Dean barked. “There’s no laughing in bowling!”

I straightened and sighed, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. “Okay,” I said, lining myself up. I started forward. _Step step step. Swish and flick_.

The ball rolled straight down the middle, hard and fast. I held my breath as it struck the pin in the center. With a crash, all ten pins went down. I turned in shock. “Holy shit!”

Dean and I met in the middle, our bodies colliding. He hoisted me into the air by my waist and spun me around, laughing. When I touched down, we were close, his gorgeous face mere inches from my own. It was easy as breathing to close the distance, to feel that smile against my own. I wrapped my arms up and around his neck, pulling our bodies flush together. Dean never stopped smiling as his lips moved against mine.

The overhead lights flipped on with the buzz of outdated wiring, and a moment later, there was a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh my god. Dad?!”

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._

Dean and I broke apart and I gasped, my stomach twisting horribly. My whole family was there in a crowd by the rental desk, a few of them covering their eyes or their mouths in shock, a few frowning in disappointment. My girls all wore similar expressions of shock. Gabe and Luke were laughing.

Anna bypassed the group and marched right up to us. She stopped in front of me. “What the _fuck_ , Castiel?”

I held my hands up in surrender. “I can explain.”

“It’s my fault—” Dean cut in, but I stopped him.

“No, Dean, please.” I took a deep breath and searched her face for the barest hint of understanding. I saw none. 

“The other day, when I met a guy at the bookstore?” I paused, hoping I wouldn’t have to say it. 

Anna didn’t budge.

“It was Dean,” I said. “I was talking about Dean.”

Without warning, Anna reared back and smacked me—hard. I spared an absurd thought for how she should have used _swish and flick_ for maximum accuracy and speed before I tasted blood.

There was chaos around us, people yelling, movement and hands pulling us apart. Belatedly, I realized Dean wasn’t standing next to me any more. I caught only a glimpse of his solid frame rushing out toward the front doors before I pulled away from whoever had a grip on my shirt.

“Dean!” I called. He didn’t even turn. I ran.

He got to his car before I was even out the door. I ran to the driver’s side and tried the handle, but he’d locked it. I banged once on the window as he pulled away, then sprinted over to my car just as the first of my family members came flooding out of the bowling alley. I pulled the door shut, ignoring their shouts, and didn’t even bother with the seat belt as I threw the car into reverse and stepped on the accelerator.

Everything came to a terrifying, crunching halt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why can't we just have nice things? I ask myself as I continue to write not-nice things.
> 
> Thanks again for your feedback. And as always, come say hey on [tumblr](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and twitter (@glassclosetcas). No really.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember! Things are gonna get better*!
> 
>  
> 
> _*after they get worse_
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter Eight

_“Try not to be blinded by ‘rightness,’ dear reader. You may be right, but consider your actions and your words. Just being ‘right’ doesn’t mean that your actions are always justified.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

My body slammed against the back of the seat and rebounded, though I was able to narrowly avoid the steering wheel by a matter of inches. Everything went quiet and white around the edges for a moment, and all I could hear was my heartbeat, fast and erratic in my ears.

Things moved quickly around me. I was aware of the car door being opened, of shouts and pacifying speech, of hands reaching in and examining my face and neck and eyes. “Cas,” someone was saying. “Castiel, can you hear me?”

“I’m calling it in,” a man said.

“No!” The voice next to my ear said. Hannah, I realized. “I’m an RN. Give me a minute, I think he’s fine.”

I turned my head and met my sister’s eyes. “What happened?”

She leaned further into the car, lowering her voice. “You hit a cop car. How’s your head? Is your neck stiff?”

I knew she wouldn’t leave me alone until I dutifully moved my neck, checking for pain or stiffness. “No pain,” I said. “Not in my neck, anyway. I think I just missed hitting the steering wheel.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” she said, producing a kleenex from her purse and wiping delicately at my lip.

I winced at the dull throb of pain, wondering how I'd split my lip in the accident. But then I remembered Anna hitting me. I'd been so distracted chasing Dean that the slap had barely registered. 

The kleenex came away crusted with red and I sighed. Hannah tucked it away and put me through a small series of neurological examinations, most likely making sure I wasn’t concussed. 

At last, she stood up and turned, announcing to someone, “He’s fine. No medical attention necessary.”

I shut my eyes and sighed, trying to calculate how far Dean could have gotten by now. It didn’t matter, anyway. If I’d hit a police car, I’d likely be stuck here for some time, if not arrested. Improbably, the very same policeman from before materialized at my open car door, eyes hidden behind shining aviator sunglasses that seemed totally unnecessary in the post-storm gloom.

“License and registration,” he said, clipped voice befitting his severe face and posture.

I opened my glove compartment and found my registration in its envelope, sitting right on top where I’d left it yesterday. I pulled it out along with my wallet and phone and handed over my license and vehicle paperwork. I sat back, resting my head against the seat. The officer left my side and walked back to his car. I followed his movements in the rearview mirror, pausing to look over the damage I’d done to the cruiser. The passenger side door was just barely dented in, and there didn’t seem to be much more structural damage. I wondered about the fate of my own car but didn't care enough to get out and examine it.

My entire family was gathered outside the bowling alley. They congregated a safe distance away in small groups, the adults wearing similar expressions of concern or confusion, the kids bored or upset. I couldn't get a read on Emma or Claire or Lea—they had their backs turned to me, arms crossed or with their hands on their hips.

Catching sight of Anna, face red and splotchy with emotion, I decided that maybe this was for the best. Maybe this was a sign that we should have left well enough alone. Dean was gone—possibly almost to Connecticut by now—and he'd left without a backward glance. Though it hurt more than the split in my lip from Anna's hand, I had to believe that it all meant something. I spent the next ten minutes searching for what that could be.

My father offered to drive me home and stayed standing by while I finished dealing with the policeman. Everyone else packed into the remaining three vehicles and left us there.

In the twenty minutes or so that it took the officer to write up the paperwork, Dad only asked me once if I wanted to talk. I refused. He didn't bring it up again. Unable to ignore my steadily buzzing phone any longer, I checked it for signs of contact from Dean. None of the six missed calls were from him, so I ignored the voicemail icon and turned the phone off. If he hadn't called me yet, he wasn't going to.

The police officer returned shortly thereafter, foregoing the handcuffs in favor of revoking my license and ordering that I appear in court. He tore the paperwork out of his notebook and handed it to me with the least friendly smile I’d ever seen. “Three strikes, my friend.”

I grimaced and thanked him without meaning it.

My muscles ached in the cooling afternoon air. I wondered if I should have asked Hannah to check my neck more thoroughly after all. I'd have to keep an eye on it in case I really had gotten whiplash, though that was the least of my concerns at the moment.

Sensing my tension, my father stood by my side and squeezed the space between my neck and shoulder as we watched the police car round the bend in the road.

"Time to face the music," he said, not unkindly. 

I nodded and climbed into the passenger side of my station wagon, feeling stiff from the seeping cold in my still-damp clothes and raw from the clawing guilt at my stomach, burning me up from the inside out.

Dad got a call when we were a few minutes from home. When he hung up, he explained that it was Mom asking where we were, telling us to hurry back. I asked my father if he needed anything at the grocery store, if maybe he had any errands to run in Massachusetts. He just smiled sideways at me and clapped me on the knee. It felt good to know that at least one person in my family could still look at me that way, like I hadn’t disappointed him.

We pulled up to the house and Dad parked the truck in the back by the garage. I followed him out into the autumn air and through the back door to the house, sucking in a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable ruckus. The house was unusually quiet.

“Where is everyone?” I asked. Dad just shrugged as he tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter.

“Castiel?” my mother’s voice rang through the house. “We’re in the sitting room.”

That was odd. The sitting room was a barely-used relic from another time, with plush armchairs and a too-large fireplace. It had been my grandfather’s favorite room, a place to sit and smoke a cigar and listen to the news on an old radio. No one ever went in there anymore.

I crept out of the kitchen and down the hall, pausing at the entry to the sitting room. My family was gathered in the space, some seated in chairs or standing stiffly behind them, a few lingering around the edges of the room, hands clasped and faces tight. In an old leather armchair before the fire was a gaunt older man dressed all in black. A metal-handled cane rested at his knee. A kind-faced young woman stood behind him.

“Castiel,” my mother said, standing up and gesturing to me to step inside the room. She crossed to me and took me gently by the shoulders, steering me into an empty chair. “You didn’t tell us you were expecting visitors,” she whispered.

My eyes snapped back to the two strangers in front of me. Suddenly, I remembered. It was Labor Day, and I’d made plans to meet with—

“Tessa Mortdecai,” the young woman said. She had stepped out from behind the armchair and held a hand out to me. I shook weakly and nodded, plastering on a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shurley,” she went on. “Your mother was just telling us about your little fender-bender, so sorry to hear that.”

I swallowed and shook my head. “It’s fine. Nice to meet you as well, Tessa. And,” I stood and approached the man in the chair, extending a hand. “Mr. Mortdecai?”

“Pleasure,” the man said. His expression never changed.

Tessa took her place at her father’s shoulder and I navigated back to my seat across from them. 

“Tea, Father?” Claire had appeared at my side. She held a cup and saucer in her delicate hands. Her eyes were full of fire. I accepted the tea from her and set it on my legs, letting the warmth soak into my skin. I realized that I was still a bit damp and possibly very rumpled from the past few hours’ events. I wondered if there was still blood on my lip.

“My father and I have been so excited to finally meet you,” Tessa said, apparently unperturbed by my appearance. I’d have to thank my mother later for her quick thinking, for letting these people into her home without inquest, for telling them I’d been delayed due to a car accident. For that matter, I knew I’d have to thank my brothers and sisters and daughters for stowing their anger and feigning calm for the sake of my career. They were saints, really.

As if reading my thoughts, Tessa turned a genuine smile on my mother and daughters. “You have such a lovely family. That’s part of the reason we want you for our magazine, Mr. Shurley,” she went on, but I was distracted by a ragged scraping sound from behind me. 

Anna appeared in the entryway, dragging a kitchen chair into the room and placing it firmly next to mine. She sat and scooted her seat over inch by inch until it hit the edge of my chair. I shut my eyes and felt my heart rate ratchet up again. Tessa was still speaking.

“Your family values are truly exceptional.”

“Oh, Cas is _all_ about family values,” Anna said, giving me a sickly sweet smile and patting my thigh.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Tessa beat me to it. “We understand that you are an accomplished child psychologist as well as a columnist,” she said. “It shows. The way you speak about children is just amazing. And you’ve obviously raised your daughters extraordinarily well.”

Claire and Emma and Lea were seated on the couch next to one another, feet and hands crossed, smiling sweetly. My heart ached for them.

“Ms. Mortdecai,” I began.

She held up a hand. “Please, call me Tessa.”

I sighed. “Tessa. Mr. Mortdecai. Your magazine—I love it, believe me—and it would be an honor to partner with you. But…” I trailed off.

Tessa’s smile flickered, her eyebrows drawing together.

“I can’t accept,” I said. “I’ve been… hypocritical.” I looked around at my assembled family, willing them all to turn their eyes on me, to give me their ears for just a moment. “I haven’t been following my own advice.”

Tessa was frowning now. Her father looked largely the same, though I thought I could see a bit of a smile in his eyes.

“I can’t accept,” I said again, and stood. To the room at large, I held my hands up, palms out. “Thank you for the offer and for coming all this way, but I’m sorry. I need some time to think.”

I left them all sitting there with wide eyes and slack jaws, ignoring the calls of “Castiel!” that could be heard following me all the way to the laundry room.

Ten or so minutes later, I sat on the edge of the cot with my head in my hands, feeling an immense amount of self-pity and guilt. Someone jiggled the laundry room door handle, but I’d locked it. A few people came and called my name through the door. One was Hannah, one was my father. The other was a child, though I couldn't tell who. I shook my head each time, unable to respond. After a while, I curled up on the cot and lay there with my eyes wide open.

A knock came at the door a short while later, but I ignored that as well. “Castiel,” my mother said. “I have a key to this door, so we can do this one of two ways.”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, waiting for her to start counting down like she had when I was a child. Before she got the chance, I was up and out of the bed and unlocking the door. I sat back down on the cot without opening it for her.

Mom let herself in and shut the door behind her. She sat on the opposite end of the tiny mattress and gave me an appraising look.

“I told them you’d call,” she said.

I hung my head, saying nothing.

“That Tessa—she’s such a sweetheart. So understanding. I told her that you were going through a hard time right now, honey.” She reached out and pushed the fringe of my hair away from my eyes, smoothing it back over the top of my head. “I told her that we were all having some family troubles right now, and that you just needed some time. She was very understanding.”

I nodded without looking up. The house around us was alive with motion and sound, but the tiny laundry room was insulated and cool. Everything was dulled in this room, voices and laughter from outside hushed to murmurs and sighs, the greying light from outside filtering weakly through the crack in the thick white curtains. I knew I could stay here all day and keep my senses at bay—pretend that the muted colors and sounds were comforting—but my mother had other plans for me. She broke the careful silence with a sigh.

“Castiel, what am I going to do with you?”

I breathed in deeply and slowly back out. When I tried to speak, my mother cut me off.

“You’re blaming yourself for everything, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Of course,” I said. My voice sounded tired and lifeless, even to my own ears. “This weekend was a catastrophe, and all of it was my fault.”

I laid back against the slim pillow with my hands crossed over my eyes and left my long legs to dangle off the side, feet steady on the floor, grounding me.

Mom put a hand on my knee and the small human contact anchored me a bit. “What happened that made the weekend a catastrophe?”

There was a smile in her voice, like she thought I was overreacting. I realized she didn’t know the half of it. Uncaring of how petulant I sounded, I began to tick the events off on my fingers.

“Let’s see: before we even arrived, I angered all three of my daughters to the point that they wouldn’t speak to me. As soon as I got here, I met Anna’s boyfriend at a bookstore and flirted shamelessly with him. I gave him my number. When I found out who he was, instead of taking a step back and laughing it off, I made him feel bad for being with Anna, and then pettily questioned the validity of their relationship, _to Anna’s face_. I feigned interest in Michael specifically to make Dean jealous. I extended physical overtures to him even though I knew it was inappropriate. I ignored my daughters in favor of pursuing this frankly pointless fixation on my sister’s boyfriend, and in the process chased him away, made my family hate me, had my driver’s license suspended, nearly totaled my car, and sabotaged my own career. Did I miss anything?”

My mother still had that insufferable half-smirk on her face. She shook her head as she appraised me in my sorry state.

“Castiel, you were my first baby, and I love you more than life itself. But sometimes, you can be a real drama queen.”

I sat up on my elbows. “Excuse me?”

“What was it you said in your graduate thesis? How people get so wrapped up in the perceived magnitude of their own issues that they forget to take a step back and look at the situation objectively?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Something like that.”

She patted my knee. “Well, like you said. You need to start taking your own advice. You know what I heard just then, when you were describing the _catastrophe_ that was this weekend? I am a father of teenage girls. I met an attractive, charming man who seemed equally interested in me and acted appropriately. I am only human, so I got jealous of my sister when I found out they were dating and let the jealousy get the better of me. I did what I felt was right, and yes, maybe I was a little stupid, but I was stupid for the right reasons.”

“Like that matters,” I scoffed.

“It does. Dean was just as interested in you, honey. I may be old, but I’m not blind. And I’m honestly impressed that you restrained yourself as much as you did. You’re only human, Castiel. It’s been a long time since… since Daniel. I’m guessing you wouldn’t put yourself through all of this trouble for somebody unless he was _really_ special.”

I reflected on that for a bit. She was right, of course. Dean wasn’t just special—he was… extraordinary.

Mom took my silence as confirmation. “I knew it. You’re not the type to make a big production out of nothing, Castiel. If something matters to you this much, it has to be worth it. And because I know you’ve been too wrapped up in self-destructive thoughts to see the forest for the trees, I think I should let you know that save for Claire’s melodramatic incident yesterday and the events of this morning, everyone has had a wonderful weekend. They’re all out there right now having a great time. You might have ruined the weekend for yourself, and maybe for Anna a little bit, but that’s all, honey. This isn’t the category-five disaster you’ve built it up to be.”

I examined the ceiling, trying to parse out the truth in her words. “Surely, at least a few people are very upset,” I said, just to be argumentative.

“Anna, for sure,” my mother replied. “I don’t blame you for pursuing Dean, but she deserves an apology for the way you acted. And your girls,” she added. “I’m not sure what’s going on between all of you, but yes, you’ve neglected them a bit this weekend. That _is_ on you. You should probably go speak to them. I hear Lea has something to show you.”

I closed my eyes again. Even if my mother was right about everything else and I hadn’t done as much harm as I’d thought, continually ignoring Lea was still inexcusable. 

Mom patted my knee and stood. "Think about what I said. And maybe take care of that, sweetheart," she said, gesturing to her lip in demonstration. "You've got blood all over."

After a few more minutes of contemplation, I decided that my mother was right. I'd been so consumed by the situation with Dean that I hadn't even noticed what was really happening right under my nose. I hadn't played with my new nieces or gotten to witness the joy on Hannah’s face, hadn't sampled the twenty different types of desserts everyone had been sneaking bites of. I had been too nervous and caught up to even enjoy the talent show. I’d completely bypassed both the spa party and the ritual football-watching.

All in all, I'd missed out on a lot. No wonder I'd thought the weekend was a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sassy Mama Shurley to the rescue. 
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and twitter (@glassclosetcas). NO REALLY LET'S BE FRANS


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for feels.

Chapter Nine

_“If you can’t forgive yourself, you’ll never be able to accept forgiveness from others.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

It was time to face the music. I climbed the stairs slowly, retracing steps I'd taken thousands of times before. My very own footprints were worn into the carpeting. There was something reassuring about that.

I paused at the top landing, leaning against the wall to listen to the voices inside the kids' bedroom. There was a soft, even murmuring and then a boisterous ranting. Though I couldn't hear the words, I knew the voices belonged to Emma and Claire. Rounding the corner, I paused at the door to knock. "Who is it?" Emma's voice called.

"It's Dad."

"Go away!" Claire yelled, but a moment later I heard footsteps and the door opened. Emma peeked through the crack.

“What?” she huffed, her eyes hard. I couldn’t see much in the room behind her, but I could just make out the curve of Claire’s shoulder, her long wavy hair pulled back in a braid.

“I, um,” I began, only then realizing that I had no idea what I wanted to say. “I wanted to-”

Claire cut me off, standing abruptly. “We don’t want to hear it!” 

The door slammed shut in my face. I sighed.

Before I could decide to turn tail and leave, Emma’s soft voice came through the wooden barrier. “Here, take this. Lea’s only been trying to give it to you all weekend.” 

Something pink and rectangular was pushed out of the crack between the door and the carpet at my feet. A piece of construction paper, thick with dried glue and something else. 

I picked it up and unfolded it, sinking slowly to the ground as my knees gave way. It was a collage—no, a whole story in pictures. It was art. Lea had drawn a perfect lighthouse right in the middle. The lighthouse we visited every year as a family. The lighthouse that Daniel and I had always joked that we’d buy and convert into our home someday when we were retired and the girls had families of their own. A picture at the top of the lighthouse, a cutout around me and Daniel on our wedding day, faces broken out into wide smiles. A series of photos of Daniel holding each of our three girls on the day they were born. A gorgeous candid picture of Daniel, alone, face warm and healthy in the Rhode Island sunlight. At the bottom, the last photo we had together as a family, from the Thanksgiving before Daniel’s death. He was sick at the time the photo was taken, but he still had hair. He still looked like himself.

At the bottom of the page, she’d written _Daddy_ and surrounded it with hearts. I didn’t realize I was crying until a droplet hit the page, rapidly spreading the magic marker lines into a purple blur. I wiped the wetness away with a shaky finger.

I sat smoothing my fingers over each picture for a few more moments, allowing myself to experience the burning ache in the center of my chest—the yawning space he’d left that had never been filled. Not entirely. For the first time in three long years, though, the ache was tinged with something else—a calm, perhaps, or a feeling like a fully-formed breath. Something a little bit like hope. 

I folded the page and held it to my chest, certain now that I knew what was right, what I needed to do, and what I needed to say first. I kissed the page and stood.

\--

Emma’s voice was softer when she asked who was at the door.

“It’s Dad,” I said, and before Claire could dismiss me, I went on. “I’d like to speak to Lea alone for a minute.”

The door opened and Emma was there, frowning up at me. Claire and Lea were huddled close together on one of the beds, Claire’s arm around her sister’s shoulders. Emma left the door ajar and went to sit on Lea’s other side. “Anything you have to say to Lea, you can say to us, too,” she said.

I held in a quiet laugh and came inside, closing the door behind me. All three girls wore matching expressions of disdain. I sat at the edge of the twin bed across from them and unfolded the card in my lap.

“Lea,” I began. I smiled down at the images of our beautiful family, of my beautiful husband. “This is so wonderful, little bee. I love it.”

I brushed over Daniel’s smiling face with my thumb. “Thank you for making this. And I’m so sorry, baby.”

I looked up at Lea finally. Her lip was trembling, and it hurt.

“I’m sorry if you felt like I was ignoring you.” I knew that wasn’t right, though. I shut my eyes and shook my head. “No, I’m sorry for ignoring you. I didn’t mean to, I promise. I really did want to see this,” I said, holding the paper up. “I’ve just been very… distracted.”

“Yeah,” Emma said. “We noticed.”

“I know.” I shook my head again. “I should have given you more attention this weekend. I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

Claire huffed. “That’s not even it, Dad. You give us _too much_ attention sometimes. Like, you’re fine. It’s fine.”

I looked up at her in question. She rolled her eyes.

“That’s the whole point. Like, yeah, you kept ignoring Lea, but you _never_ do that. You’re always up our asses all the time. It’s been kind of nice, actually, with you all,” she waved a hand in the air. “You know. Distracted. We could just kind of be ourselves.”

I looked away, trying to absorb this information. Emma mistook my silence for hurt.

“She didn’t mean it like that, Dad,” she said. “We don’t want you to like, leave us alone permanently or whatever. We just need our space, sometimes. We’re _women._ We need to be free to express ourselves and experience things on our own.”

“And we know it’s been hard with Daddy gone,” Claire continued. “I know you’re afraid of losing us, too. You’re afraid to let Emma drive because you’re afraid she’ll crash. You’re afraid of what’ll happen when she leaves us for college.”

Emma nodded. “You’re afraid to let Claire have a boyfriend because then you won’t be the number-one man in her life.”

Though my eyes were wet with tears, I couldn’t help but huff a surprised laugh.

“Which is dumb, because, _duh,_ I’ll always love you most,” Claire said. “You just didn’t even give me a chance. And I’m still pissed you sent Marcos away.”

I started to interject, but she cut me off.

“He was so excited to meet you. God, he’s such a nerd. He’s read all of your books and stuff, and I was going to introduce you after school on Friday, but you made a huge scene and embarrassed me and I just like… ran away.”

My heart clenched. I had to look down again.

“And then I was so mad at you that I was like, _screw it,_ who cares what Dad thinks. So I just invited Marcos and told him you were cool with it and then he spent all this money on a bus ticket and you just made him leave, and it wasn't even his fault!”

Claire’s face was red and wet with tears, her frustration leaking through. I wanted to take it all away, wipe my thumbs under her eyes and apologize, but I held still.

“Grandpa set him up with a hotel room for the night and bought him a bus ticket home,” I told her. “I’d have done the same. I’m sorry for how I handled things, and yes, I might have overreacted a bit, but you have to understand that what you did was wrong. You should have talked to me first. It was rude to your grandparents to invite a stranger to their home without asking.”

Claire sucked in a deep breath and looked down at her lap, nodding.

“I know, and I’m sorry. But like. You could have just given him a chance. You didn’t even give him a chance.”

She looked up again, her face filled with determination. “He’s way too smart for me. He’s in all of these AP classes and he’s got like a 4.5 GPA and he’s just… I’ve liked him for a long time, but I never thought he’d like someone like me. But he does. And I knew you’d be stupidly happy that I met a boy who wasn’t some loser like Derek was, and I just—”

“Baby,” I said, giving her an out to catch her breath. I slid down to my knees on the rug in front of their bed, drawing up level with Claire. “You are so intelligent, and so strong, and such an amazing person.” I took Claire’s hands in my own and squeezed. “I’m sure I’ll like Marcos a lot. He sounds perfect. You sound like you'll be perfect for each other. I’m sorry I didn’t give him a chance.”

Claire sniffled and nodded, using her elbow to wipe her nose.

“And you,” I said, turning to Emma. “You guys are right. You’re almost an adult, and that scares me. It scares me half to death. I’ll always see you as my little baby, my bumble bee.”

Emma rolled her eyes affectionately and we shared a little smile.

“I’m so afraid to lose you,” I told her, “but I’m more afraid to push you away. And you can’t be my baby forever. You’re a woman, and you’re so incredibly brave. I feel so lucky to be your father.”

Emma’s beautiful eyes were red, her lips quivering. Even close to tears, the resemblance to Daniel was uncanny and incredible.

“You look so much like him,” I said. 

She huffed a watery laugh and wiped her eyes. “I know.”

“He would be so proud of you, too. And he would have taken you out driving a long time ago. Don’t for a second think that I don’t trust you to drive, baby. I mean it when I say it’s just everyone else I don’t trust. You’re the most responsible, mature person I know.”

She grinned and sniffed. “Does this mean I can go to Oxford?”

That startled a laugh out of me. “We can talk about it.”

All three girls seemed more relaxed, less hostile. I sat back on my heels and sighed. There was still something I’d yet to apologize for.

“Listen,” I began. “I know you know what happened between me and Dean this weekend, and I know that it was inappropriate of me. I know it made you uncomfortable.”

I said this last part to Emma, holding her eyes and hoping my sincerity would bleed through.

“What I did—what we did to your Aunt Anna was wrong, and I need to apologize to her for that. I don’t want you to think I don’t know how wrong my behavior was.”

“So then why’d you do it?” Claire asked.

I took a deep breath and cast my eyes around the room while I thought about the best way to word my response.

“It’s been hard since… since Daddy left us,” I said. I had to raise my gaze up to the ceiling for a moment. “I know how hard it’s been for you guys, but it’s been hard for me, too.”

My eyes burned and I blinked, letting the droplets fall. I cleared my throat and went on. “It sort of feels like, when he passed, he took part of me with him. Do you know what I mean?”

All three girls nodded. They were all crying, too. I held out my arms and Lea dropped to the floor and crawled into my lap. I wrapped my arms around her, pressed a kiss to the top of her head and left my cheek resting there.

“I know it’s not fair to you guys, because I’ve never really felt the same since losing your father. I’ve felt… like I wasn’t me anymore. I didn’t know how to be me without him. We were together for so much of my life, I didn’t really even know how to _be_ without him. I’ve felt like I couldn’t really see colors the same way, or breathe as deeply as I used to. There’s always this little bit of emptiness, right here,” I said, reaching around Lea to paw at the center of my chest. “And I don’t want you girls to think that the emptiness is there because you’re not enough to fill it. On the contrary, you’re the reason I’m… you girls are the reason I’m still going at all, you’re the reason I can even get out of bed in the morning—”

I had to pause to take a shuddering breath and slowly wipe my eyes. By the time I opened them again, Claire and Emma had joined us on the rug, each taking a side and huddling close. I put my arms around them and pulled them to my sides. We all sat shaking with silent tears for a few minutes. I hadn’t really ever spoken about Daniel’s death with them. I knew it had hit the girls just as hard as it had hit me, but I couldn’t bring myself to think too much about the void he’d left in our lives. It was a constant ache—a never-ending hopelessness. 

When I had caught my breath enough to speak again, I went on. “When I met Dean on Friday, it was like… I don’t know. Like that little empty place in my heart wasn’t there anymore. Or, it was still there, but I couldn’t feel it as much.”

I could feel Claire and Emma looking at me. I stared out the bay windows, watching the rustling leaves and the golden-green filtering through in the afternoon light. 

“For the first time in three years,” I went on, knowing that they didn’t need to hear all of this, but unable to stop myself now that I’d started, “I felt like a human being. I know that’s an odd thing to say, but that’s how it felt. Like I was just a human again, just another person—someone who could make his own choices and choose to do something a little reckless because it would make me happy. And…” I trailed off, realizing this next part was true just as I said it. “Dean made me very happy.”

“As happy as Daddy?” Lea asked.

I shut my eyes against the weight of the question. There was no way anyone could replace Daniel, no one who could ever fill that special place in our lives. Still…

“Almost,” I admitted. I kept my eyes closed and exhaled. It was true. I knew what this feeling was.

Lea wriggled out of my lap and stood. She put her hands on her hips.

“You have to go after him,” she said.

I laughed. “Little bee, I can’t just—”

“No, she’s right, Dad,” Claire insisted. She stood up and crossed her arms. “This is like, majorly important.”

Emma pulled herself up onto her knees so that she was level with me. “Dad, I haven’t seen you as happy as you are around Dean in a long time.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to tell her that she and her sisters made me that happy every day, that just knowing my little family was alive and well and safe was enough to bring me joy, but she held up a hand and I closed my mouth.

“I know what you’re going to say, and that’s not what I mean,” she said. “Yeah, we make you happy, but that’s different. This kind of happy—it’s not something we can give you. Daddy used to make you smile like that.”

She paused to bite down on her lower lip. Her jaw still trembled. I reached out and grasped her arm, rubbing my thumb in a soothing circle over her wrist.

“It’s just,” she began, her voice cracking. “It’s really good to see you smile like that again.”

All at once, I lost it. The girls surrounded me once more, pulling me close for a group embrace. We sat there on the floor for what felt like a long time, shaking with sobs, holding each other close. I drew in a shuddering breath.

“I love you girls so much. Do you know that?”

I felt three heads nodding against my neck and chest. God, it felt good to have them all in my arms again. 

I sighed. “I have to make things right with Aunt Anna. Before I do anything else.”

“Then you'll go after Dean?” Lea asked.

I laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Sure, baby.”

I knew I wouldn’t. I couldn’t, in good conscience, go after Dean. There were more important things to worry about than my love life, like the family members I’d hurt and the dream job I’d just turned down. I couldn’t sacrifice the life I’d built for myself and my daughters for the sake of a man. Not this late in the game. I had to set things right.

I found Anna in the downstairs bedroom that she and Dean had been sharing, now empty but for her small overnight bag and purse on the bed. She was putting on her makeup in the mirror over the bureau. I rapped my knuckles on the doorframe and her eyes snapped to mine in the reflection in front of her. Just as quickly, she looked away.

"Can we talk?” I asked. Instead of taking a step inside the room, I leaned uncertainly against the doorframe.

Anna waited to speak until she'd created the perfect line on her eyelid with a black pencil. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Anna—" I began, but she stopped me with a sharp look.

"Cas, I'm over it." 

I sighed. “Let me at least explain myself. I know it won’t be enough, but at least let me tell you what happened. I just want to apologize.”

Anna remained silent, carefully tracing her other eyelid with the pencil. Satisfied, she stood, fluffing her hair in the mirror. When she turned, her smile was wide and forced.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she said. She picked her purse off of the bed and stuffed her phone into the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans. “Besides,” she said, striding past me and out of the bedroom, “Dean was too old for me.”

My mouth agape, I followed her through the kitchen, past our gawking family members and all the way to the front door. She turned and paused with a dangerous smirk. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned up to hug me and whispered in my ear.

“Seems like you’re perfect for each other,” she said. She kissed me on the cheek and stepped out the door.

I stood dumbfounded in the open doorway as Anna skipped down the steps. A red sports car was waiting in the driveway, its convertible top down despite the chilly September air. Michael was smiling and waving from the front seat. Anna vaulted into the car without opening the door.

“Bye, Cas!” She called.

With a screech of tires against the gravel drive, they peeled away, kicking up a cloud of yellow leaves. 

Gabe was suddenly there at my shoulder. "Oh, that’s fuckin' gold."

\--

I helped the girls pack their bags and hauled them all downstairs, setting them in a pyramid next to the front door. I hugged Hannah, Gabe, Kelli, and Amelia, dodged a noogie from Luke, and shook hands with Greg. My parents pulled me and the girls in for a lingering group hug, telling them to take care of me. Lea promised she would.

When I’d hugged all of my nieces and nephews and waved one last goodbye to my parents, I started hauling our bags out the door and into the trunk of the car.

“Cas,” my dad called. He had my keyring around his finger, his other hand on his hip.

“Oh, thanks,” I said, bounding up the steps to retrieve the keys. 

Dad closed his fist around them and shook his head. “Forgetting something?”

 _Oh shit._ My license had been revoked. I turned back to the car, where Emma was standing in the open driver’s side door. She waggled her eyebrows at me and held out a hand. I sighed, taking the keys from my father’s grip.

Emma smiled wider than I’d ever seen her smile when I handed them over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shields face*
> 
> Come cry to me on [tumblr](http://www.glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and twitter (@glassclosetcas).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end! I hope it's been worth the ride. I loved this story. Thank you all for your kind words. 
> 
> The next chapter is an epilogue.   
> I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Ten

_“Change doesn’t happen overnight.”_  
\- Excerpt from _Fix My Family_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

It was 1:30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon, and I was sitting at my comfortable wooden desk, making very little progress on my emails. I had three email addresses now—a personal one for communication with family members and friends, a business email for correspondence with publishers, editors and distributors, and an email address strictly for _Fix My Family._ In the two months since syndicating, requests for my advice had more than quadrupled.

After we’d gotten back home from the Labor Day weekend at my parents’ house, I’d immediately gotten Tessa Mortdecai on the phone.

“Ms. Mortdecai,” I’d begun, my whole speech prepared and ready on the tip of my tongue.

Tessa interrupted me. “Castiel!” she said. “I’m so sorry for the awful timing yesterday. I wish we’d known.”

There had been nothing false in her tone. She genuinely seemed concerned that she and her father had walked in on a family crisis, that they’d intruded. I had been quick to set her straight.

“Oh no, Tessa, not at all. _I_ apologize for my behavior. I’m sorry for letting you and your father get all the way out there without us being prepared. I should have called and rescheduled. I’m so sorry for having wasted your time.”

Tessa had only scoffed. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Castiel. Your family was very welcoming. And believe me—you might think I’ve got it all figured out, running a lifestyle magazine and all, but I’ve had my fair share of crises. Family dramas, relationship issues. You name it.”

I’d smiled into the phone. Her voice was so kind and reassuring, a little bit on the conspiratorial side.

“If you’d be willing to wait a few days for me to get everything in order over here,” I’d said, “I’d love to come down to your offices and meet with you again.”

She’d been incredibly responsive, telling me to take all the time I needed. I decided I had my act together after taking a few days to sort out my priorities, and soon I was in Manhattan in my best suit and tie, waiting in the lobby at the _Home and Families_ Magazine headquarters. By the time October had rolled around, I was officially syndicated with the country’s most popular lifestyle magazine.

My family had been extremely pleased, knowing how proud I was of my little advice column. Even Anna took the time to call me, to tell me how excited she was that her big brother was a famous writer for a fourth time, that she had already bought a subscription to _Home and Families_. When I’d asked her about Michael, she’d gushed about their week-long trip to Bermuda, about the shopping trip Michael had taken her on after she’d miraculously lost five pounds and went down from a size 4 to a 2. I’d held in my protests, knowing that Anna was happy, that she deserved to live whatever materialistic lifestyle she wanted, so long as she wasn’t hurting anyone. So long as Michael was treating her well. It seemed he was.

She’d asked me about Dean, which surprised me. I’d figured they would have had some parting words, at least. Perhaps a trip to one another’s apartments to get any personal items they’d left.

“I haven’t spoken to him,” I’d said.

Anna made a noise through the phone, halfway between a sigh and a groan. “Cassie,” she began.

“Anna, I didn’t like myself that weekend,” I’d told her. “I was ugly to you, I turned down the perfect job opportunity, and I completely ignored my daughters.”

She sighed. “Cas, have I forgiven you?”

I hesitated, so she answered for me. “Yes, I have. And did you acquire said dream job anyway? Yes. And have you set things right with the girls? Yeah. Plus, I’m pretty sure all they care about is seeing you happy.”

I’d remained silent at that, mulling it over.

“Love makes us do crazy things,” she said, quoting my own words to me.

She’d been right. I knew I was in love. I also knew how crazy that was, how silly to think that I should chase after a man I hardly knew, especially after that man had fled in abject panic because of my actions. I still remembered Dean’s face as he pulled away from the bowling alley, the regret I’d seen in his beautiful eyes. That alone was enough for me to let him go without a fight.

Despite my daughters’ constant protests and needling, it seemed to be the right choice not to pursue him. It had only been two months, but I had a wonderful new job and was getting along great with the girls. I would send them off to school every morning with sandwiches in lunch boxes, smiley faces made of honey drizzled onto the peanut butter. Claire had brought Marcos over for dinner several times, and he was just what she’d needed. I’d gotten my license back, but Emma was driving us all to and from their school every weekday, which made her extremely happy. She was sending out college applications to anywhere and everywhere she could think of. I was helping her study for the SAT, but I knew that if she set her mind to it, she’d ace it with no problem. 

I had more work than I could contend with, and my column was receiving excellent reviews from magazine subscribers.

Still, I felt compelled to plaster the smile to my face. Still, I woke up cold every morning, clutching an extra pillow to my chest to try to quell the gnawing ache I felt there, growing stronger all the time. In the deepest darkest corners of my mind, I felt selfish and ungrateful. I should be happy. I should feel whole.

Now, as I sat at my old writing desk—the one which once held a typewriter, back when I’d still submitted my articles for the school newspaper in a hard copy format—I scrolled through a hundred or so unread emails, eyes unfocused, sighing. The only thing that I truly regretted about this new influx in respondents was that I could never reply to them all.

A subject line caught my eye on an email dated November 10th, three days ago. **_Labor Day Shitstorm,_** it read. I held my breath and clicked.

_Dear Cas,_

_Can I call you Cas?_

_Listen, Cas. I made a real ass of myself, and I need your help. See, there’s this guy. This fuckin amazing guy—wait, can I curse? Shit, probably not. Uh. Okay, you don’t have to publish that part if you don’t want. Point is, There’s this guy I met, Labor Day weekend. He’s smart as hell, and funny, and so goddamn good with his kids. He’s raising three girls all on his own, and he’s doing a great job, you know? I really admire that._

_Thing is, there was this girl. And yeah, she seemed great, but I knew as soon as I met him that what I felt for her wasn’t it. You know what I mean? I met this guy, and within seconds I knew he was the one. Sounds crazy as shit, I know, but it’s true. Sparks flew. For me, anyway. Can’t really say for him, though I’d like to think he felt the same._

_But I was scared. Scared of how intense it was, maybe, or scared of what it’d do to his sister if I just up and left her for him (it’s his sister I was with, by the way. I know, it’s a damn soap opera). Anyway, I was too chickenshit to tell her, just come right out with it and say that yeah, these past couple weeks have been nice, but you’re not right for me and I know it because there’s somebody right here who is. Somebody who’s available and needs someone in his life who can love him right, who can love his girls right because they lost their dad and they deserve to get some of that love back._

_So I ran. I fucked up, and I ran, and I never even called him, even though I dialed his number about a thousand times and never hit “call.” It’s been months, and I think about him every day. We only knew each other for three days, can you believe it? But that was enough. I’m a goner._

_Anyway, my brother Sammy says I’m the saddest excuse for a human being he’s seen in a long time, and I’m emotionally repressed or some shit, and I let a real good thing pass me by, and if I don’t get my act together and do something about it soon, he’s gonna fire me. Apparently I’m ‘depressing the customers.’ Whatever._

_So, Cas, what do you think? If I reached out to him now, after all this time, after I left him high and dry to deal with the Labor Day shitstorm I left him in, even though I was responsible for at least half of it, you think he’d be willing to listen? You think he’d call me or text, maybe be up for getting a cup of coffee or something to talk about it?_

_Sam’s right. I let the perfect guy get away. I can’t let it happen again._

_Yours truly,_

_Dean_

It was everything I'd needed to hear, from the one person who could make a difference. All at once, it was as if a fog had lifted. I realized there was only one thing that could make me feel whole, make me truly happy again. Yes, Sam was right. We were a perfect fit. I couldn't let Dean slip away again.

Hands shaking, I dialed the number and hit ‘call’ before I could think better of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come shout at me on [tumblr](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and twitter (@glassclosetcas).


	11. Chapter 11

Epilogue

_“My vision grey, I felt adrift and yet so still. Before we met, I never knew what it was to feel. You asked me how I knew; In truth—the shape of your hand in mine. I knew nothing could feel the way we felt together. Only by design.”_  
\- Excerpt from _The Station in the Storm_ , by Castiel Shurley

 

It was late Spring. The Rhode Island air was cool, but the trees and blooms around us were already bursting with life, showering tiny white petals down like snow.

Dean wore a tan waistcoat and a soft blue button-down, rolled to the elbows. He looked stunning. I told him so.

We walked arm-in-arm down the path lit on both sides by topiaries, casting their warm golden glow against the shadows of the late afternoon. Dean gave my hand a little squeeze when we rounded the side of the house, and together we passed through the small gathering of people there toward Gabriel, our officiant, standing with his back to the bay. He gave us a wide smile and a wink as we took our places before him.

Sam and the girls were already there—Emma and Claire on one side and Lea with Sam on the other. Sam looked handsome in a suit that matched Dean’s. The girls wore light summer dresses in yellow.

Dean and I took turns hugging them, giving the girls a kiss on the cheek or into their hair. Sam gave me a firm clap on the shoulder and an encouraging nod. The brothers embraced for a long time. 

Then Dean and I turned to face one another and took each other’s hands. My eyes met his and we smiled together. It felt like the same smile we'd shared all those months ago in the bookstore, like it had never really gone away. Like it never would again.

"You ready for this?” Dean whispered to me, his eyes teasing.

"I was born ready,” I said. He laughed.

In truth, I’d never been so willingly spontaneous about anything. I’d also never been more sure that what I was doing was right.

We shared our vows—Dean's, written on a folded piece of yellow note paper, mine memorized from months of repetition. I was only verbalizing what I'd been thinking since the moment we met. Dean promised to love and care for the girls as his own. He promised to make Daniel proud. Here, I broke down a bit, but Dean had a tear in his eye, too. I waved the girls over and the five of us hugged, Lea happily smooshed between us all.

Claire and Lea passed us the rings—plain silver bands—and we set them on each others’ fingers. Then Dean and I pulled the three necklaces from our pockets. They were made of fine silver chain, brightly shining and perfectly matching our rings. The girls all cried in surprise and delight when we fixed them around their necks.

Gabe announced that we were now husbands, that we could kiss. I couldn’t stop smiling through it. Dean’s lips hit my teeth. Cheers erupted all around us, but for the moment it was just me and Dean. My arms came up and around his back and I pulled him close. We’d stopped kissing, but I held him there for a moment more, just breathing. Realizing that this was all real, that this moment was mine to keep.

“For the first time,” Gabe proclaimed, “I’d like to introduce the Shurley-Winchester family!”

Our gathered guests cheered once more. Sam pulled us into a tight hug. My entire family wanted to offer their congratulations. Even Dean’s surly surrogate uncle Bobby looked a little teary when he shook our hands. I never stopped smiling through it all.

In the waning light, we danced to Fleetwood Mac—"Songbird," this time. We took turns twirling the girls around to ABBA and The Rolling Stones. When a slow song played, I asked Michael if I could cut in with Anna, and through the next few songs she and I talked about our childhood home, about how she couldn’t wait to get married right here someday. When I gave her back to Michael, he nodded and smiled, and I knew they’d be alright.

Dean and I finally broke away and pulled off our shoes. With our pants rolled to our knees, we walked hand in hand through the gentle surf of the bay. We made it to the lighthouse just as the first twinkling stars appeared to the east.

He pressed his hand to the weather-beaten bricks of the tower and breathed in deep. “I’ll take good care of him,” Dean said to the night sky.

I kissed him again with the sea breeze in my hair and the stars shining their approval up above.

_About the Author_

Castiel Shurley is a three-time _New York Times_ bestselling author, part-time musician, and full-time father. His advice column, _Fix My Family_ , can be found in the world’s leading home and lifestyle publications. He lives in New Jersey with his husband, Dean, a three-legged cat named Dave, and two of their three daughters. They plan on making a trip to Oxford very soon to visit their eldest daughter, though they’re told that Rhodes Scholars are very busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this story. Come say hey on tumblr or Twitter. <3


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